The sun is hanging onto the horizon; I know I only have a few minutes before darkness sets in.

The chickens are roosted by eight, tansy buttons have faded to brown, and countless asters are on the eve of blooming. Late August to early September feels like a season all of its own. The days still tempt me to flip the air conditioning on but the evenings and early mornings call for a sweater and a jean jacket.

The garden is transitioning, maturing and setting seed. After collecting enough calendula blooms to make a good amount of infused oil for salve making, I let the rest mature and they are now setting seed. Calendula seed looks like something that washed up on a beach. They look ancient, like tiny crustation fossils.

This was my first year growing calendula and it has grown exceptionally well throughout the garden. A canning jar full of dried blooms in olive oil sits in the back of my pantry as I write this. In a few weeks, I will strain the oil and mix the infusion with bees wax to create a healing salve.

I continue down the mulched garden path, my daughter bouncing on my hip. Her chubby fingers pull on the leaves of summer squash, an unpleasant touch I am sure, but she seems unphased.

I grow an heirloom crookneck variety that is basically unstoppable. Beneath the thick vines, I catch sight of a few evaders that I missed during the morning harvest. I have been making squash fritters multiple times a week with fresh onion and herbs. Topped with eggs and maple syrup, it's a treat! Summer squash has graced many pasta dishes. Creamy lemon orzo squash has been my favorite. The chickens have enjoyed their fair share of squash as well.

The pumpkin patch (also squash, but pumpkin rolls off the tongue) is whimsical and shaping up to be my favorite part of the garden. After an unsuccessful attempt at growing pumpkins, I changed my course of action and tried again. You can read more about it here, if you want. The Cinderella pumpkins are defined, their ridges pronounced. They have turned from a mustard yellow to a deep orange. When the stems dry out more, I will harvest. Hidden beneath large leaves, I see a blue pumpkin, brutish and thick skinned. My son will love it. Growing on the fence and sprawling throughout the patch, I see the warty skin of Marina Di Chioggia. I imagine the gnocchi, soup, oatmeal, pasta-- let alone pie-- that will allow me to celebrate these beautiful ingredients. Growing food has a wonderful side effect of inspiring me to cook.

I duck and weave through wild vines, past green beans that I have been picking daily and come out in front of tomato alley. I tug on a bright, red, cherry tomato that I missed during my pre-rain tomato harvest and pop it into my mouth. Tomato vines smell like a feeling--alive and fresh, earthy and healthy. It's a smell that is difficult to put to words, but that may be why it so alluring.

Each plant is heavy with fruit in various stages of ripening. Most of my labeling is wrong so I don't know what variety I am looking at but the fruits in front of me are absolutely monstruous. Gorgeous ribs, plump and taught. I hope they ripen on the vine before frost.

Tomato basil soup is a perfect meal for the in-between season. It's warm and comforting like a chilly autumn evening but also bright and fresh like a summer day. When my son was a baby, I was making pasta sauce with garden tomatoes but got distracted with him as I was pouring in cream. My sauce became the tastiest tomato soup I had ever made. I need to make that soup soon.

The sun fell behind the trees. My boots follow the familiar path back to the house, but not before grabbing a handful of herbs for tea. I pluck fennel fronds, holy basil, red raspberry leaves along with a few sprigs of golden rod. Harvesting just what I need for a nighttime cup of tea feels so rich, in a peasant sort of way. Mixing what I have cultivated with what grows wild feels poetic.

Until next time,

Jackie

Growing warm-loving plants like tomatoes, watermelons and peppers can feel like a gamble. It seems like just when they get going, so full of life, frost comes down like a thief in the night.

You can find market gardeners around here by looking for the high tunnels. Around this time of year, those plastic wrapped frames are packed to the brim with trellised tomatoes and peppers. The heat captured helps them ripen much quicker and live longer than if grown outdoors.

When the crates of tomatoes grace the farmer’s markets in July and mine are just beginning to blush, I remind myself that the long underwear will eventually come off.

A northern Wisconsin summer makes up for a northern Wisconsin winter. Very rarely do temperatures reach over 90F/32C. We experience typically low humidity, mostly sunny skies and cool nights that call for open windows and a bonfire.

In August, onion bulbs are swelling, green beans hang heavy, summer squash grows by the minute and sweet corn is sold out of the bed of old, pickup trucks all throughout town. Sunflowers bow their heads and goldenrod lights up the field all the while, tomatoes ripen. Marvel of Four Seasons Lettuce, a favorite variety, is swollen with seed. Cilantro has turned to coriander; dill is tall and whimsical.

I don’t entertain the thinking that homesteaders in the north have it harder or worse than southerners. I think we all have our obstacles, and we all need to get creative at times to grow food well. I have a short growing season, but I rarely deal with fungal issues, blight or heavy pest pressure. I have never seen a squash bug (I say that cautiously..) My garden pressures include larger animals, like deer and bear, who would love to eat my entire patch. Cabbage moths, flea beetles, aphids and rollie pollies are common. My garden was Japanese beetle free for three years, but they found me this year. I have been diligently squishing them, so they haven’t gotten a foot hold, but it was disappointing to find that first metallic looking bugger on my raspberries.

Some years are better than others. Last year we had an awful plague of cluster flies. This year, nothing. I think (maybe?) the very cold winter worked in our favor and killed some of the pesty insects.

If I ever catch myself starting to envy another person’s geographical placement, I remind myself to lean in. Lean into what grows well. Lean into what thrives, what is native, what makes the land special. I saw a post by an Alaskan homesteader (I don’t remember who, sorry!) with a picture of wild harvested berries and their salmon catch. That is leaning in.

I’ve begun pulling off tomato blossoms to prevent new fruit from forming. As of this week, I have become a bit more aggressive, topping and pruning to hasten ripening. It feels wrong because the plants are so healthy, but last year’s frost came suddenly in early September.

The first tomatoes to ripen are of course, cherry tomatoes. A Grappoli d’Inverno was a close second. Tons and tons of large, plum drops hang in bunches all over the plant. It is a storage tomato, known to hang from the rafters in Italian kitchens well into December. It’s an awful fresh eating tomato and don’t let any seed catalogue convince you otherwise. Mushy interior and very little flavor. But, I hear it’s wonderful roasted. I am saving them up until I have a large batch. If I end up loving them, then I can honestly say I have a winner for my northern garden. Fingers crossed.

Kelloggs Breakfast was the first slicer to ripen. It’s a beautiful, sunset colored variety that is destined for a sandwich. I have a load of green ones, and I hope they will ripen on the vine before first frost hits. I grew a few others, Mortgage Lifter, because I am a sucker for a good story, Manitoba because it’s supposed to be a good producer in a cold climate, and a variety of cherry tomatoes.

Although my tomato plants all look healthy, and are growing well, I am thinking I need a new game plan. I need a reliable, multipurpose, workhorse. I have my eye on Plum Regals, a determinate tomato that I have heard are great for canning.

In the past, I have gravitated towards indeterminate tomatoes with the thought that I want unlimited amounts of tomatoes. Now that I live in a place with such a short growing season, (roughly 129 days), I am realizing that without a tunnel, or some sort of protection, a determinate variety may be a better producer.

I dream of some sort of tunnel or green house, but for now, I am leaning in to where I am.

Until next time,

Jackie

The squash patch began last fall with a couple bags of someone else's oak leaves dumped behind the garden. I can't help myself when I see good, clean leaves just sitting on the curb. I envisioned squash seedlings nestled into leaf litter in the spring. I could already see the sea of vines hiding beautiful, whimsical, winter squash.

My current garden is about 750 sq feet. That is about 1/4 of a tennis court. There is a flat, sunny spot behind my garden, the area that I am encroaching, that is about 2,000sq feet. If combined, I would have a tennis court sized garden.

I stare at that mowed plot of land nearly everyday and dream of rows of potatoes, towering corn stalks, tassels blowing in the wind. I imagine wild vines circling sunflowers, berries bordering the Aspen Grove, bursting with fruit. I see all the pretty flowers. It is glorious. It is productive. It lives in my mind but feels so tangible I have to believe it is already on this side of reality.

Without a tractor or a tiller, cultivating an area of that size is a big task, but little by little I am tackling it. My wheelbarrow and I have accomplished a lot so far and although I am not against machinery, or even tilling to some degree, there is something empowering about working the land without any machines.

When I think back to the thousands of hours I spent in a gym in my 20s, I can't help but wonder what I could have built with all that expended energy. Weighted rubber plates have been replaced by babies that need to be carried, animals that need to be fed and gardens that need to be watered. I would rather lift rocks for a garden border than dumbbells any day.

Once spring truly sprung, with eager hands, Rouge Vif d'Etampes (Cinderella pumpkin), Marina Di Chioggia and Jarrahdale were transplanted into heaps of compost nestled within the decayed leaves.

When the vines stretched beyond the comfort of the leaves, I met them with cardboard and aged wood chips. I have successfully created no-dig garden beds in the past strictly with woodchips. However, a friend of mine hooked me up with sheets of virgin cardboard. No ink, dyes or glue. It definitely has made no-dig gardening less time consuming because the amount of mulch required has gone down significantly.

My current schedule is roughly once or twice a week, while my daughter naps in her stroller, I grab three or four sheets of cardboard and add to the squash patch to accommodate the growing vines. The idea is to catch them before they root into the grass. The cardboard pieces are thick with a length of about 7ft. Once I have the pieces in position, I warm up my muscles by hauling a couple loads of mulch to cover the cardboard well. My wheelbarrow is my trusty sidekick. My son is my human sidekick, sometimes, but usually ditches me to look for snakes or to jump off stuff.

Most of the mulch is aged around three years. I have a few different piles all close together so it basically forms one heap. The piles vary slightly on the level of decomposition but I am starting to see beautiful, fluffy black gold near the bottom of the piles.

All winter, the mulch will sit and decompose even more along with the cardboard. When the ground is thawed in the spring, my plan is to rack most of the mulch into walkways and then amend the bare soil areas with lots of good compost.

With each wheelbarrow full of mulch, I am that much closer to the vision I have for our homestead garden. The journey sure does make the destination mean more.

Until next time,

Jackie

°Northern Wisconsin

They are birds full of instinct. Everything they do seems hardwired into them. They know exactly when it's time to roost. I find that pretty cool. They scratch the ground looking for bugs and worms in a sycronized, line dance sort of way, and that's always fun to watch. They are really great at hiding their eggs. As annoying as that can be, I have to give them props, they play a better game of hide and seek than most children. They pick up on patterns, such as feeding schedules, very quickly. Then there is my rooster.

Now, I know there are some real A-hole roosters out there. I've heard, always have a rooster stew recipe in your back pocket, just in case. But, I have a really good rooster. I have been observing his behavior for a few years now and he has qualities that resemble a real, good man.

Let me explain.

A good rooster will protect his flock. He does this by constantly scouting out the area for danger. If he does spot a potential threat, let's say a low flying hawk, he will sound an alarm and all the ladies will run for cover to avoid being picked off by a hungry raptor.

My rooster continuously protects the flock and even helped save a hen from our dog. He basically freaked out so intensely, flapping his wings, hopping up and down, flaring his feathers, that my dog didn't know what to do next and that hesitation allowed my husband to grab the hen, literally, out of his mouth.

A good man should protect his family and rise up to face a threat when necessary. Just like a good rooster.

With a flick of his head and a scratch at the ground, my rooster shows his ladies where food can be found. He points out the good stuff, worms, insects, treats I throw over the fence, and then tries to evenly distribute them. He makes sure the hens are all fed before he eats, but sometimes he doesn't eat at all. He makes an excellent provider and serves his flock sacrificially. You know where I am going with this.

A good man should provide for his family and make sacrifices when necessary. Just like a good rooster.

Above all, really and truly, the hens enjoy having a rooster around. They seem at ease with him.

That sounds like goals to me.

Nature can be a great teacher. If you come across a mean rooster, ask yourself, why is this not an ideal rooster? Is he aggressive? Haughty? Forceful?

That is not the rooster for you.

A deep root has grown out the refuge of the garden and into my humble kitchen. As I sliced stringy end bits off the Jade bush beans, I thought of the abundance that my small patch has offered this season.

Earlier that day, I lifted the sagging plants, heavy with plump pods, and felt a wave of gratitude wash over me. A simple green bean felt like magic in my hands. How small seeds sown on an overcast May morning could transform into gallons of beans is wild. I hope that no matter how many seeds I faithfully press into soil that sense of awe never fades.

Little feet stumbled down the hallway. I froze. I heard the flip of the light switch and the sound of pee that definitely missed the mark. That's little boys for ya. He stumbled back to his room and flopped back into bed.

I gave my attention to the garlic bulb before me. Dirt still clung to its roots, stems nearly dried after a few weeks of curing on a wire rack set over two sawhorses in the basement. This is a smaller bulb, the larger ones I will save as seed for fall sowing. It's a hard neck variety called Georgian Fire. This is the second year of growing this variety and saving the largest for seed. I peeled back the layers until I could wedge my nail in-between the cloves. Stripes of beautiful red and purple looked like a mosaic painted onto the papery skin. Into each jar, still warm from the oven, I dropped a peeled clove. I followed with a few springs of fresh dill and handfuls of green beans wedged close together.

Beneath calendula and lemon balm, a drying rack held the first of the ripe cayenne peppers. Small and slender, but full of firey heat. Dry weather can make the heat of a pepper more pronounced, so I figured these were most likely extra spicy. I chopped a few peppers and added a heavy pinch to each jar.

My nose began to twitch to the familiar smell of brine boiling on the stove. The humble trio of vinegar, water and salt would marry the vegetables into something new. Just another way to enjoy the garden bounty. Green beans have been on the table more than a few times now, usually roasted or grilled with salt, pepper and whatever herb I decided to throw on them.

The hot brine filled each jar, bubbles rose to the surface. The beans took on a darker hue and the crimson color of the pepper flakes popped against them.

The beauty of this life is manifold, branching out to many areas. Beauty can be found in nature, in creation, in words, colors, people, landscapes even in a few jars of dilly beans.

I have come to realize that I am much happier when I look for beauty, when I notice the colors and how they complement each other, when I take note of the way the light hits. It's simple and may even feel silly at times, but maybe that's what I need. I don't wish to paint a life perpetually through a golden hour filter, but I do think it's worth mentioning that beauty is here.

**This is a personal story and should not be used as veterinary advice

When a little white Siamese cat started hanging around the property, at first, I ignored him. We live in the country where feral cats are common and, in some cases, aren't actually feral, but rather wandering a bit far from home. But as time went by, it seemed to me that this cat wasn't just visiting, he was taking up residence. He kept his distance, as most cats do, but from my kitchen window perch I watched him retreat to the barn at night. During the day I often saw him stalking prey near the edge of the woods or lounging in the tall grass.

One day, when I was outside alone, I spotted him pacing and thought maybe something was wrong. I got down on my knees and called kitty, kitty. Shockingly, he came right to me.

That was really it.

He took to me instantly.

His tail was bent abruptly, and had what looked like a sore. All fur in the area was licked clean off. He was skinny, even for a Siamese, and his eyes were a little cloudy. He had an enduring snaggle tooth and a calm demeanor. I tend to believe that animals have a great sense of who can be trusted. For the last month, as I was studying him, he was studying me.

I began feeding him twice a day and spraying his tail with Vetericyn, a poultry wound spray I keep on hand. Taking him to the vet was financially out of reach, but my neighbor, who is a vet tech, came by and gave him a once over. After her visit, I began giving him a dewormer and antibiotics for his tail. The antibodies cleared up his eyes, too.

Day by day, he became brighter and noticeably happier. I named him Ranger, because he basically patrolled the property all day.

Now, he greets us and rolls over for belly scratches, rubs his scent all over us and lounges in the woodchips while I tend the garden. I never had a cat before, never really cared to have one, but I am smitten with this little guy.

Before I allowed him to spend the night in the coop, at night, when I would close the chicken coop, Ranger would race around the corner and follow me into the run. He would try to sneak into the coop before the door closed. Each time, I would pick him up and take him out. He would look up at me; blue eyes edged in disappointment. Then one night, I thought, let's just try it. Him and the chickens get along during the day, maybe him sleeping in there will be just fine.

Coop Cat was born.

Ranger keeps the coop mouse free and guards the coop of weasels, a predator that is hard to keep away and killed an entire flock of my neighbor’s chickens. With the rising sun, the front coop door opens, he exits the coop and waits at the run door for me to let him out. I feed him and he goes about his day, hunting and lounging and doing cute cat things. At night, he returns, ready for another night in the chicken coop.

He is Ranger, mostly my garden buddy, sweet boy, and my livestock guardian cat.

My name is Jackie and I grow plants for food, medicine and beauty on my eleven acre homestead in northern Wisconsin. I am growing within a short season (129 days) in clay-ish soil that I am improving upon each season. I currently grow everything in-ground. This is my third growing season on the land I call home and I have learned a few things from quietly observing that I would love to share with you.

Most gardeners advise to mulch heavily around plants to help retain moisture, keep the soil cool and prevent weeds. This is solid advice, especially when growing in a warm climate. The issue I personally experienced with mulching heavily from the start, as in, spring, is that the ground stays too cold, which then stunts the growth of warm loving plants such as tomatoes and peppers.

Generally speaking, I rarely have to water my garden because clay holds onto water so well. Also, we have many underground springs. Mulching heavily retains TOO much moisture and doesn't allow the area around my plants to dry out in between watering, which can prevent nutrient uptake and create a breeding ground for disease. Imagine: sad, stunted, plants with yellowing leaves.

That doesn't mean I don't mulch at all. I mulch pathways with aged wood chips. I create no-dig garden beds by laying down mulch in the fall and raking it back in the spring.

I have built up a large amount of wood chips because years ago I contacted an arborist and offered up my land as a woodchip drop off site.

If you are looking for free wood chips and have the space, try to contact an arborist or two in your area. Word of caution, wood chips will most definitely carry ticks and tipping your driver is a nice thing to do.

I have a budget of about two dollars for the garden so getting creative and using what I have is a must. Now that the weather is warm, I mulched my warm loving plants with aged chicken compost/straw. I caught myself staring at a shovel full of chicken compost with such adoration. You know you are a gardener when you are proud of your chicken shit.

TANSY COMPOST TEA

Tansy is invasive where I live (maybe it is everywhere ?) but I don't mind it all that much. I love the medicinal smell of the leaves and find the bright, button blooms cheerful. I have made bug spray with the leaves and some say having the plants near your garden will deter pests. If dairy cows eat it, I hear it makes the milk taste awful. Its a deeply rooted plant that accumulates nutrients which got me thinking, why not make compost tea with it? I have comfrey growing, which is commonly used for compost tea, but it's too young to harvest. So, I grabbed a 5 gallon bucket, loaded it with tansy, covered it with water and shut the lid. By the end of July it will be 6 weeks since doing that and I give it a go as a liquid fertilizer. Hopefully it gives my garden a good kick in the pants. I will update in the future.

I have begun harvesting jalapenos and Hungarian wax peppers. Unripe Marconi and cayenne dangle like earrings off the pepper plants. I typically don't have peppers ready to harvest this early but I did something differently this year.

In the past, when my peppers flowered before transplanting, I would pluck the flowers off with the thought that the pepper plant should focus on root production when transplanted and not fruit production. This is a great practice if you have a long growing season. I don't. This year, I left the flowers and started harvesting Hungarian wax peppers and jalapenos this past week. Typically, I wouldn't have peppers until August. (For reference, I started the plants from seed around March 1st)

I would like to try over wintering peppers. If you have personal experience, I would love to hear!

I feel so fortunate to have so much information at my fingertips. So many gardeners put themselves out there to teach others and I'm so grateful for that because I did not grow up shelling peas with Grammy on the front porch. What I have learned is that I can take tips and ideas from other experienced gardeners, but my garden is going to grow it's own way, with its own identity, shaped by rain, soil, temperature, humidity, sun, me and God. Microclimates are an interesting topic that maybe I'll expand on one day, but basically, every garden is different. Some crops do better than others. My garden is more like a story than a mathematical equation. I have found there is more than one process, more than one solution, more than one way to garden.

The land, the plants, the soil, are great teachers. Observing how plants grow with a genuine desire to know them is a powerful teaching method. With my heart and mind inclined, I am able to give them what they need, even if it's not what mainstream garden advice advocates.

This year I have all my herbs in the ground. (I have everything in the ground) They are healthy and green; however, they were not happy for the majority of June. June can still be a chilly month here in Wisconsin, with nights still dipping into the 40s. I think I will try growing herbs in raised beds next year. Why? Because I observed they were yellowing from poor nutrient uptake because the cold, clay soil of springtime was not ideal for their growth. But, nevertheless, Genovese and sweet basil plants were ready for a substantial harvest the last week of June, right along with the garlic scrapes, which felt like such a gift. I didn't even know what a garlic scape was ten years ago.

I spent my daughters nap time whizzing up garlic scape pesto. It’s a seasonal blessing and we have enjoyed its fresh flavor in a few different pastas. It's a luxurious addition to bolognas and a star in a creamy white sauce. I don't really measure anymore, and I substitute with what I have on hand but here is my favorite garlic scape recipe.

GRILLED GARLIC SCAPE PESTO

8-10 garlic scapes (roasted or grilled until charred/ for about 3 minutes per side)

1 cup basil (Genovese, sweet)

1/2 cup Parmigiano Reggiano (freshly shredded)

1/2 cup walnuts

Zest and juice of 1 lemon

1 tsp dried oregano

1/2 tsp dried basil

1/2 tsp red pepper flakes or calabrian chilies

Pinch or salt

1/2 cup good

olive oil

Blend and smile.

The flowers filled the air with the smell of death and unfamiliar old people. I felt guilty, but I hated them. I felt suffocated and physically ill standing before them. Overwhelming waves of grief and sadness washed over me, just throw them out.

My grandma talked us into keeping the bouquet shaped like a cross that was laid on top of the casket. I can't argue that it was beautiful but at the end of the day, what do you do with it? It sat in our garage stinking up the place until my dad worked up the nerve to walk it to the curb for garbage pickup.

My mother, uncle, grandpa and a few other people all passed in succession and each wake was filled with the same smell of sterile death.

Before refrigeration, flower arrangements were used to mask the smell of the body. Now of course, with embalming practices, the body doesn't smell like a rotting corpse but rather a chemical dipped suit.

I knew flowers as highly perfumed, perfectly arranged symbols of death. They made my heart race and my stomach turn. I hated flowers. My brother agreed with me, too. All we knew were funerals.

When I first started gardening, I was only interested in growing what could feed me. In a large, raised bed filled with local soil and compost I planted out Brandywine tomatoes, slicer cucumbers and frying peppers. I filled the cinderblock border with herbs of all kinds. Genovese basil, thyme, oregano, parsley, cilantro, sage and rosemary all grew happily within the confines of concrete.

I was in a new, exciting relationship and completely smitten with my garden. My hands felt at home in the soil. The smell of tomato vines and fresh herbs cleared my senses and took me to a place that felt native to my spirit. Then one hot summer day, the cilantro bolted. Soon after, so did the basil. Suddenly, I had flowers in my garden. The bees flocked to the sweet scents calling to them. The life-giving qualities of these flowers, I could now see, were beautiful and valuable. With a new outlook, I added more flowers the following growing season. Borage grew alongside the cucumbers; the orange blossoms of calendula filled the border.

In the garden I began to feel myself softening. Like a long exhale, I began to fully breathe again. I felt like I was seeing flowers in truth, not through a lens of trauma.

I happily wandered through nurseries, surrounded by more flowers than I knew existed. How can a place filled with flowers smell nothing like a funeral home? I remember asking myself as I ooed and awed inside of an adorable plant shop near my old house.

When we moved to our now-homestead, it was the end of August. After a long drive and hours of unpacking, I needed a mental break. I headed outside with a mason jar and a pair of scissors. Golden rod glowed bright in the field, hover flies and bees swarmed native asters while black eyed susans and tansys stood proudly. Seed heads and grasses of pinks and purples gently blew in the wind, brushing my shoulders. It was intoxicating. I began cutting stems here and there, gathering what caught my eye. Back inside, I arranged my cuttings into a lovely little arrangement. I placed it in the center of our wooden table, boxes all around, and felt peace.

I didn't hate flowers.

I didn't even hate arrangements.

I had to unlearn what I thought a flower was to appreciate them.

I still don't like funeral flowers. I'm not alone in the distain. Many people agree that funeral flowers are just different. If I were to guess, it's probably the overall energy of the funeral home and the grief that goes along with walking through the death of a loved one that turns flowers into a trigger.

I hope at my funeral my family and friends bring seeds and plants to fill a garden. I hope that beautiful plants with strong roots and life supporting capabilities remind my loved ones of me.

I'll always prefer roots to a selaphane wrapped arrangement, but I do love gathering wild flowers with my son and arranging them for the kitchen table. Sitting down to eat with yarrow and daiseys makes me happy and that's enough of a reason to cut flowers for a vase.

I now grow flowers for their beauty, for the pollinators and for medicine. Long blooming catmint is a flush of purple flowers beneath my bay window. Hummingbirds and bumble bees visit the hardy perennial nealy all day. Zinnias have just begun blooming in the new garden bed outlining my chicken run. Chamomile is tucked into my strawberry bed. The first flush of green apple scented blossoms are just beginning to reach for the sun. Soon I will enjoy a restful cup of chamomile tea.

Life supports life all around me and it's enriching to play a small part. The smell of fertile land, damp and electric, fills my lungs and lifts my spirits.

A funeral home may indeed, smell like a funeral home, but it is not my final destination.

I am destined for an eternal garden.

We have had, what I would call, brassica weather. The days are cool and sunny and end with a sweater, a cup of tea and a rainstorm. Clover carpets the meadow, daisies bloom with vigor, and the pesky bugs of late spring are surprisingly no where to be found. No buzzing mosquito in my ear, no humming fly landing on my head. Some say the harsh winter killed off a lot of the insects. Whatever the reason, I am enjoying it.

Fireflies light up the field everynight. Truly a scene I haven't witnessed since I was a child. I have seen more rainbows in the last month than in my entire life. Rainbows bring out the child in all of us. Anyone who happens to be at our house can't help but stop and stare in awe.

With the increased moisture in the air, I took a shot at propagating a few hydrangeas. I simply took soft wood cuttings and stuck them in potting soil. Since funds are not limitless, learning to propagate is a skill I plan to put into practice. I would love to hear what you have had success propagating.

In The Garden

The weather has been so pleasant, I find myself just wandering the property with my daughter, taking in the beauty of our surroundings. She kicks her legs and claps her hands in the carrier strapped to me while I point out wildflowers and whisper my vision of our land and garden in her tiny ear. I tuck yarrow, red raspberry leaves or whatever else catches my eye into my pocket for an evening cup of tea.

The broccoli that bolted in the beginning of spring didn't know what it had to live for. Now that the conditions are just right, the remaining broccoli are finally growing.

Kale, lettuce, radishes, onions and strawberries are all happily existing among the peppers, tomatoes and herbs that are healthy, but not growing very fast. Some of the nights are still getting down to the 40s. Basil is living on a prayer. I think next year I may move herbs to a raised bed. The ground stays cold for a long time here, which can be discouraging.

I've found that what works for some gardeners simply won't work here. Heavily mulching the ground around my peppers and tomatoes keeps the ground too cold. Tomatoes, I have found, benefit from not being planted super deep, a rule I once lived by. Planting too deep can stunt their growth. It does sometimes feel like a race against time when the growing season is so short. It presents an opportunity to be creative and resourceful. Raised beds and cold frames are swimming around in my brain.

The feeling of being behind thankfully falls to the wayside when I cut a few heads of lettuce for a side salad or collect a bundle of kale for sausage soup. Suddenly I am empowered and satisfyed. I feel like I'm right where I should be, doing what I should be doing.

Storm Damage/Patience Required

My homestead is in its infancy. Young apple trees that I planted dot the property. This was the year I was supposed to get my first meager harvest of apples. My Haralson apple tree had about a dozen apples growing. It doesn't sound like much, but the first sight of an apple tree bearing fruit is equivalent to seeing that first tomato begin to blush. I was basically bursting.

Last night a storm ripped through. It lasted only a few minutes, but it was fierce. Rain came down in sheets, completely blacking out the window.

The damage was done.

The main liter on my Haralson apple tree, where the apples were growing, snapped off during the storm. Looking at that broken branch on the soggy ground I truly could have cried. But, I had little eyes looking up at me. I told my son it's a bummer but the tree will be just fine and will probably be stronger from the pruning. We just have to wait longer for apples now. Sigh.

We will still eat apples from other sources. I'm really not legalistic about our eating. I grow some of our food and I hope to close the loop more and more, but I don't feel bad for going to the store and buying what I am not producing. There are some really great grocery stores and co-ops out there offering local meat, dairy and produce. I am truly relieved I don't have to provide our family's food in entirety, but growing food and producing what I can is important to me.

Being in relationship with this multifaceted land is humbling and empowering at the same time. I love that I can take a walk and find lambs quarters and incorporate it into dinner. I'm heartbroken when a storm damages my tree or destroys what we have built. My heart is invested.

Living this life requires so much patience. Waiting for the hens to lay. Waiting for the tree to bear fruit. Waiting for rain. Waiting for the rain to stop. Waiting, waiting and more waiting. As hard as it feels at times, I know that waiting grows my gratitude. Logically, I of course, know a hen will lay an egg given it's basic needs, but when I held that still warm egg in my hands for the first time, it didn't feel logical, it felt magical.

Waiting has enriched my life. A garden would not be as fulfilling if the harvest came on day one. I've been right alongside my garden throughout the seasons, making the harvests sweeter and more meaningful.

Until next time,

Jackie

The rooster’s crow sounded eerily like a tornado siren. The hens quickly retreated to shelter. The sky was blackened and the tree tops bended with the strong west wind. I stood in the clearing, my long hair blowing in the wind. I felt oddly okay feeling so small beside the towering trees and beneath the ominous clouds. The clear horizon to horizon view allowed me to see the storm approach. A wall of black clouds slowly overtook the sky. It was magnificent and terrifying, the kind of beauty that tempts you to fall to your knees, kind of like being in God’s presence, I imagined.

Quickly, I grabbed shovels and tossed them in the wheelbarrow I was carting and headed for the pole barn. I passed the chicken coop and prayed that the whole thing wouldn’t blow over in the storm. How people here have chicken tractors, I truly don’t know. Maybe a lot of cinderblocks to weigh it down..?

Tornado alley is shifting, I hear, and is impacting Wisconsin. I could throw in numbers and statistics here but truthfully what I want to share are my own observations. What I can say is that I have had to batten down the hatches more than ever in my life. We have woken up kids in the middle of the night and led them, groggy eyed, to the basement to wait out bad storms. Most recently, a town about a half hour away was severely hit by an F3 tornado, flattening much of the subdivision. Miraculously, no one was hurt.

The weather leaves me feeling out of control. Helpless is not a feeling I am comfortable with as a parent, a landowner, homeowner and animal caregiver. Hail can destroy a garden; tornados can destroy homes and structures not to mention end the lives of many. I know that all I can do is what I know to do. Use wisdom; which is why I found myself putting away garden tools so they don’t become lethal weapons flying through the air at 70mph.

Back inside, I made dinner. Potato nettle soup, a freshly harvested salad dressed in chive vinaigrette and finger steaks. I kept my eye on the radar and after cleaning up, played with the kids.

Storms continued into the night, much needed rain. It has been a very dry spring. In some ways, it has benefited us. The mosquitos are at an all-time low. None of my plants are affected with fungal issues common at this time. But of course, I know the spring droughts are determinantal for the pastures, wildlife and the growers on larger scales.

There is nothing like rainwater. Prior to the string of rainstorms, with a baby strapped to me, I hauled water to the garden. Back and forth, back and forth, with two overflowing watering cans, I marched to ensure my transplants didn’t die and seeds would maybe germinate. Certainly not the spring I anticipated.

Most of the warm season crops were planted the first week of June. I try not to scrutinize the garden too much for the first week or two because transplant shock is real, but usually, everything bounces back. I try my best to mitigate shock by hardening off as best I can, but when it comes down to it, I find that most plants experience an adjustment period. Most of my broccoli was unforgiving of the hot, dry weather and bolted. Such is life.

The morning after the storm, the sun’s rays reflected off the water drops on the grass and all the plants, creating a living mosaic. The smell of damp earth lifted my spirit, but I still felt myself holding my breath as I walked through the arch way leading into my garden. Would I find wind damaged tomatoes? Hail damaged lettuce?

The garden looked like it was infused with an IV. All signs of transplant shock were diffused, leaving me with beautiful, healthy plants. Green beans were unfurling from the Earth, my second round of sowing. Spinach filled in so densely I could hardly see the ground beneath. Peas clung to their trellis, glowing in dew. Tomatoes and peppers stood tall and green, flowers and tiny fruits forming. I planted cantaloupe and watermelons seedlings where we once had a fire pit. My hope was the residual ash would help them thrive. Their vines are beginning to creep to where I encircled the bare soil with straw. Beauty surrounded me in the form of leaves, shoots, stalks and stems.

I take a deep breathe.

There is nothing like rainwater.

I am a Christian but sometimes don't want to tell you because then you will put me in a box filled with Trump supporters, anti-abortion protesters and that awful lady you met who told you that you're going to hell. I definitely will not stray from telling you Jesus is the Lord of my life, but I may waver on labels because, sometimes, I don't like so-called Christians, either.

I love nature. I will be in absolute awe of a hummingbird, lose my mind over a rainbow and happily wander through the forest. My happy place? My garden, of course.

But that's not spiritual enough for some.

You're not supposed to love nature, love God! Hate this world! Don't be apart of it! Then, for good measure, they will quote the Bible out of context.

The love I have for a hummingbird is different than the love I have for my children. Different than the love I have for my husband and certainly different than the love I have for God.

I serve a God who walked with his creation in the cool of the day in The Garden of Eden. I worship a savior who escaped to the wilderness to be alone with God.

I was made by a creative God, who also created plants, animals and heavenly bodies. I don't worship creation, but I sure do love to be a part of it.

I've wrestled with the question, does this matter if in the end, the world as we know it, burns away? If you're unfamiliar with Bible theology, in the end times, the world as we know it will be burned, and a new heaven and earth will come down out of heaven and that is where we, as God's children, will live with Him for all of eternity. Free of sin and united with Christ forever and ever.

At first, the thought of the world being burned, kind of made me sad. I thought about all the beautiful things of this Earth. Here is what I was not understanding: The type of fire that God will use to burn the Earth is a purifying sort of fire. All evil and corruption will be destroyed, melted away. Imagine intense heat used to purify gold. The gold was there the whole time, but all the crud stuck has to go.

So that leaves me with the question, does what I'm doing matter to God? Should I care about planting native plants and supporting wildlife when in the end, the real end, the world as we know it will pass away?

I think the weight of that question presses on the minds of many and is why there are Christians out there who drag their feet or reluctantly talk of anything conservation or environment related. They think that it's too near sighted to focus on the Earth's physical condition when there are spiritual wars to be fought. I resist that thinking because God does care about his creation. Not a single sparrow hits the ground without his knowledge, the Bible tells me (Matt 10:29). And get this: In Romans 8:22-23 it says, "We know that all creation is groaning in labor pains even until now; and not only that, but we ourselves.. as we wait for the redemption of our bodies."

This is absolutely amazing and hard to even imagine. All of creation knows they are not living the way God intended. Creation is waiting for full redemption just as we wait! Instead of thinking that the land I stand on will be no more, I replace that with the land I stand on will be restored.

Heaven come down from Earth!

If you have seen Moana, the scene where the heart is returned and the island is restored to a beautifully lush, abundant environment reminds me of what God promises to do. As amazing as that scene in Moana was, I know what God does will be better.

We are told in whatever we do, do it all for the glory of God (1 Corinthians 10:31). Glory means to basically, point to God. When I'm eating dinner, I point to God, who is my provider. When I am caring for my children, I point to God by raising them to love Him. Bringing glory to something means to shine a light on, point to, or magnify by your actions. I really don't believe a person can point to God when they are pouring poison on farmland or mistreating animals.

That brings me to another popular Christan arguing point I take issue with: I've heard Christians argue their actions by saying that God gave humans dominion, so we can rule over creation how we see fit.

The exact Bible verse is found in Genesis 1:26-28 "Let us make man in our image, after our likeness: and let them have dominion over the fish of the sea, and over the fowl of the air, and over the cattle, and over all the earth, and over every creeping thing that creepeth upon the earth."

The thing is, most are forgetting the first part of what God said. After our likeness. Jesus tells us plain and simple in Matthew 20:25 what his likeness looks like:

"But Jesus called them unto him, and said, Ye know that the princes of the Gentiles exercise dominion over them, and they that are great exercise authority upon them. But it shall not be so among you: but whosoever will be great among you, let him be your minister; And whosoever will be chief among you, let him be your servant: Even as the Son of man came not to be ministered unto, but to minister, and to give his life a ransom for many."

Well look at that-- we are to serve and minister. We are not supposed to extort, strip, and perverte the resources put on this planet.

In Genesis, God commanded Adam to tend and care for the garden. So, that's what I will do. I'm certainly not in Eden, but I will care and tend to what God has placed in my hands.

Glory be to God.

Is this an irrovocable call on my life shaped by forces greater than I? Is my genetic code marked by ancestors long dead who gave me more than a persistent mannerism?

When I was a kid, supposed to be asleep, under the cotton comforter, I held a flashlight in one hand and The Hatchet in the other. One after the other, without thinking about why, I gravitated towards titles such as, Little House on The Prairie, The Boxcar Children, Island of The Blue Dolphins, Heidi, The Secret Garden, Anne of Green Gables-- The list goes on.. and on... and on. Did I know, without knowing, that I was destined for a life filled with wild gardens, forest walks, trees, flowers, rising bread and seasonal meals made with what the land gives in abundance?

My ancesty is marked with folks who lived off the land, simply and naturally, in the many distant countries that I've never been to but feel apart of. Is there a place in my spirit filled with memories that I myself didn't have personally? Are there lights on that I myself didn't strike with a match? I weigh these thoughts out and come back to the same conclusion--

I am different for a reason.

There has to be a reason.

Many woman in the homesteading, gardening, living- off-the-land community would say the same thing about themselves. The Internet is an amazing tool that has brought all us "different" women together and connected us by a common thread. That doesn't mean we are all the same, but I think we all share a common belief that life should be full of life. Life should be buzzing, wild with color, filled with birds and butterflies, flowers and trees, branches and brambles, thickets and seeds. A life that makes us feel so damn much but we don't hide from it. We lean into it.

I am observing that women similar to myself are rising to the occasion to be who they were made to be without apologizing.

If the people I used to know in highschool were told that I now live on an elevan acre homestead in Northern Wisconsin, I truly believe most would say something' along the lines of, "that makes sense.” I've always gotten along but never felt like I belonged. It didn't always make sense to me but now, I feel it so strongly that I was made with purpose for a purpose. Maybe you feel that too. I hope you do.

If my rambling have resonated, please let me know by liking or commenting. Knowing your here is nice, for reasons I haven't quite figured out.

Until next time,

Jackie

“No,” I tell him. “This is just spring in Wisconsin.”

Living in a seasonal spirit feels right when it’s a mild, sunny day in spring. But what about the snowy days? I am tempted to shout; I rested (kinda)! I cooked and baked and now I’m ready to break ground and get my hands dirty!

But, the snow still falls. I’ve decided to lean into the season. The actual season, not how I envision the season.

In truth, snow in spring is nothing new. In fact, early spring snows are known as poor man’s fertilizer. Snowstorms in April are common. May is full of frosty nights and mild flurries. Yet, the murmurs in the check-out line are complaints mixed with bewilderment.

Similarly, a few weeks ago, we were in a mini drought. Spring rains are, of course, important for pastures, native plants and trees but it also prevents wildfires from breaking out.

When the sky finally opened up and gave us a good soaking, I was in town, dropping my son off at school. Under umbrellas, the small talk in the vestibule was, I’m sick of the rain. Now, I know sometimes people feel uncomfortable in silence and need to fill the air with some sort of exchange. However, I couldn’t help myself. You know we were in a drought, right? We had been in a high fire risk. You pass Smokey the Frickin’ Bear everyday driving here, don’t you?

Nature knows the perfect time to break her dormancy. Crimson peony shoots pop through cold soil, reminding me of asparagus, which is not in season here just yet. The mature serviceberry is in bloom, thousands of dangling, white, stars brightening the monochromatic forest. Apples are budding, the wild strawberries that carpet the forest floor are beginning to flower and the showy catkins of the many willows around the property are opening. All of my bare root plants, planted in April, are budding. Such a great relief.

The thrill of discovery is something I hope to never get used to. The sight of stinging nettles peeking through the overgrowth lifts my spirits.

Foraging is an empowering skill that has added so much enjoyment to my everyday life. A walk in the woods comes to life, a weed becomes dinner, nature speaks and connects me to the current season.

Along the fence line between my neighbor and I, I picked nettles for potato soup. The spikes don’t bother me much, so I pinched the tops without gloves and placed a good bunch in a wire basket I had pressed up to my hip.

Nettles shared a pot with caramelized onion, red potatoes, and fresh herbs in a creamy broth spiked with sour cream and white wine vinegar. A meal that leaves me feeling rich is a meal made with seasonal, local ingredients. I plan to replicate that soup as much as I can this season.

Spring is an energized time of year. I would love to be outside all the time. The amount of mending, mowing, planting, building, cleaning, racking and digging done right now is hard to quantity. Some of my larger, seemingly never-ending projects are removing invasive species like bull thistle and cutting and winding up old, barbed wire. Leather gloves are great for both tasks.

I transplanted a JPM Rhododendron near the new front porch my husband recently built. Even though the nights are still frosty, transplanting hardy perennials that have been overwintered outside is safe to do. Little by little, I am adding to the landscaping. I have my eyes on native additions such as cranberry bushes, chokecherries and elderberries in the near future.

The new chickens are in their awkward teenage years, and we began the integration process. Basically, we have a chicken run split down the middle with the original flock on one side and the new hens and a shelter on the other side. Every night I wrangle the new hens up and put them back in their run in the basement because the shelter isn’t predator proof and I really don’t want to take any chances. I am waiting to fully integrate the chickens when the new ones are basically the same size as my other hens.

In the past, we have fully free ranged our chickens. However, we have ran into some problems. The main problem is our neighbor. Their dog has “visited” the flock on more than one occasion and killed a hen. Other times I was able to scare the dog back to her own yard, but I worry about the dog coming back when I’m not home. It would be heartbreaking to lose my entire flock. Another problems with free ranging is that my rooster wants all the ladies he can find. So, he tries to get the neighbor’s chickens to come over by us. Also, the chickens are frequently in the road, laying under our cars and messing up any and all landscaping. Their new, fenced in run is over 2000sq feet, bigger than our house. 13 chickens should be just fine in that space.

The garden is truly looking like a garden. Last summer I expanded the garden by laying down a thick layer of mulch to kill the grass. Recently, I racked back the mulch to reveal beautiful, bare soil. My no-dig expansion seems to have work out well.

Snap peas finally unfurled from the ground. Soon their tendrils will wind up the trellis. Leeks, kale and lettuce were transplanted today, the first seedlings to leave my indoor growing operation. Broccoli, cauliflower and cabbage are hardening off and I’m hoping to get them in the ground by the end of this week.

Temperatures should be consistently warmer soon. I’ll be on asparagus watch.

Until next time,

Jackie

Present day, one of my favorite rhubarb recipes is my BBQ sauce. I originally developed it for a pulled pork recipe for a regenerative farm.

Directions: in a 3 qt stock pot bring to a low boil and cook all ingredients for 40 minutes. Then blend. I like to use an immersion blender. Alternatively, let cool and blend in a standing blender.

I enjoy working within a season. I avoid burn out and resentment if I give myself the time to miss something. With that said, I decided last year to mirror my local garden centers busy season and sell my sourdough bread from April to June.

My sourdough micro bakery is a teeny tiny operation that began last year. I was working at an adorable garden center and once in a while, gifted sourdough bread to the owner. She encouraged me to start selling bread right there at the garden center. She even built me a special display shelf. After figuring out the logistics of it all, I opened my sourdough micro bakery.

Each week, I stacked a shelf with 6-8 loaves of fresh bread and left a cash box for customers. The customers were encouraging and supportive. So, here I am, getting ready for my second season.

My sourdough starter gets a workout this time of year and I end up with a lot of sourdough discard on my hands. I began dehydrating sourdough starter to save indefinitely. I follow a simple process.

When the starter is at peak activity, I spread it out on a fruit leather tray that was included with my dehydrator. I set my dehydrator to its lowest temperature, 95° and let it run until the starter is dry like a cracker. This usually takes around 18 hours.

After that, I break the starter into smaller pieces and pulverize it in an electric spice grinder. I store it in a mason jar in a cool, dark place. I have also in the past packaged some up and sold it at the garden center along with rehydrating instructions.

How to Rehydrate Sourdough Starter:

*I recommend using dry measuring cups rather than liquid

1) In a nonreactive bowl, combine dehydrated starter, ½ cup flour and ½ cup UNCHLORINATED, warm water. Let stand 24 hours at room temperature lightly covered with a tea towel.

2) Your starter won’t look like much at this point. Mix in another ½ cup flour and ½ cup water. Let stand 12 hours lightly covered.

3) Bubbles should be visible by now. Feed again, ½ cup flour and ½ cup water. Let stand 12 hours lightly covered

4) Into a clean bowl or jar, combine ½ cup starter (what you have been creating!), ¾ cup flour and ½ cup water. Discard the unused starter, or give to a friend. In 8-10 hours your starter will be ready to use.

Keep refrigerated in a covered container when not in use. Aim to feed weekly regardless if you bake with it.

I’ve had really great customer reviews, and I find it so special to know that my starter lives on.

Another use for sourdough discard is, of course, to bake with it. My favorite sourdough discard recipe to date is my lemon poppyseed rum cake. It’s an ultra-moist sweet bread topped with a rum glaze and a lemon glaze. Yes, two glazes. I’m from Chicago, and everyone in Chicago knows that sour cream is the first ingredient in Portillo’s chocolate cake. I included sour cream in this recipe to create that ultra moist texture. This has become an Easter dessert my family looks forward to, and I’ve included the recipe below for you.

If you have a sourdough discard recipe that you love, send me the recipe!

From my back porch perch, I felt fully aware of all my senses. The warmth of the sun’s rays on my naked complexion, the smell of Earth, broken free from ice and snow. White tail deer grazing in the distant pasture are faint, brown outlines against an evergreen backdrop.

In sharp trills, a flock of killdeer sang their morning song to each other. Sparrows densely filled the naked poplar branches that surrounded me, creating the illusion of moving treetops. The crisp, spring air was vibrating with their high-pitched chatter. The abrupt squawk of a pair of sandhill cranes sounds out of place.

Although their return is expected each spring, the first time I hear their loud call, far off in the expansive sky, I feel hopeful. The world is still turning. The sun continues to shine. The sandhill cranes are not confused about what to do or how to continue living. I find comfort in natures rhythm. If one day the sandhill cranes decided to not come back to the land I call home, I’d know right then and there I don’t belong, either.

The sandhill cranes caught my rooster’s attention. He ducked his head as he walked through the coop door then immediately gave me a cockeyed glance as if to say, you seeing what I’m seeing? I can tell he doesn’t trust those red headed, prehistoric looking raptors flying above him. He crows to let them know he is right here.

Then, I rinsed my mouth with the water I held in my hand and spewed it off the side of the deck.

I had been brushing my teeth.

Why? Because our holding tank was completely full. Which meant that no water in our house could go down a drain because all drains led to a 3250-gallon tank buried in our front yard that was at max capacity.

We were desperately waiting for the familiar red back up lights of a septic truck, (also called the poop truck around here) to ease down our gravel drive.

There was no question we had dropped the ball. The holding tank should be checked frequently to avoid the exact situation we found ourselves to be in. Unfortunately, we noticed our tank was full on a Friday night. Monday was of course the soonest they could get to us. Therefore, we spent the weekend using a 5-gallon bucket as a toilet and using a three-bucket system for washing dishes. Whore’s bath is not a common phrase around here, but when you can’t use your shower, you take a whore’s bath.

My morning seemed so romantic. Even though, it was just a Monday. I was brushing my teeth, waiting on the poop truck.

Our boots are worn and dirty, like fine lines around my eyes, the leather is cracking, telling of its well lived life. When it makes sense, we buy something new, but more often than not, we give something old a second life. Debt lingers, reminding us of the days we paid for groceries with credit cards. I can’t remember the last time we ate at a restaurant, but fresh bread is cooling on a rack, and a roast is in the oven. Vehicles and machinery know the callused hands of my husband. Dirt is my manicurist.

We are in a balancing act, prioritizing, allocating, making dew and sometimes, simply doing without. Like many people, we are caught in the middle.

If you saw our bank account you may indeed think we are poor, everything is relative. But this isn’t a poor thing.

I suppose this an open letter of sorts, dedicated to the close people in our lives who just don’t get it.

Once, we processed and ate a deer that was, indeed, roadkill.

Are things really that bad? They asked with downcast eyes.

No, nothing is really that bad, but why would we leave 60 pounds of perfectly good meat to rot? I suppose some of their distain lies in ignorance of our capabilities. They had no idea that my husband can look at an animal and tell if it’s sick or not fit for eating. They don’t know we are very careful and sanitary in our processing practices.

Another instance, a person we know, didn’t want to eat the eggs laid by my flock of chickens because they were not USDA inspected.

I was screaming inside.

My chickens eat organic feed, free range our 11 acres and overall have really great lives. What is the matter with you?!

Someone I love very much said that hunting is for sport, not food, and you should eat grocery store meat instead.

Just buy it at the store, I’ve heard.

Are things so tight you can’t just buy it?

Doesn’t that take a lot of time? Is it worth it?

But you’re not a mechanic... (So don’t try to fix it)

This is not a poor thing, although, poverty is a great opportunity to receive an education that no university could compare to. So, if it’s not a poor thing, what is it?

Learning skills that serve our homestead is putting more cans in our can-do pocket. Building resiliency starts with processing a chicken, field dressing a deer, canning tomatoes, saving seeds and identifying wild plants.

Regardless of financial standing, life skills will never be beneath me. The financial benefits of taking what was once outsourced and bringing it back home is a great benefit, but my family and I are gaining something deeper, a sustainable future.

Another word for sustain is to strengthen or keep from falling. Cultivating skills strengthens us. Building a network of people who know how to do real life, so to speak, is strengthening.

When I picture strength, I imagine a diverse group of people with arms linked so tightly that they form a wall. The wall is protecting our peace. Self-sufficiently, I don’t believe, protects our peace.

Here are some examples of community sufficiency in my own life:

I worked at a garden center for two seasons. I would bake sourdough and gift it to my coworkers. The owner, who I can best describe as a badass chick with a heart of gold, encouraged me to start selling the bread right there at the garden center. She offered up her business space (without taking a cut) so I could begin my micro bakery.

Another example, when the power went out last winter, my husband offered up his skills as an electrician to our neighbor by hooking up his generator to the furnace.

Lastly, my neighbor gifted me deer tallow because he heard I make candles with it. In return, I gifted him a candle and a loaf of bread.

We have come to the realization quickly that we cannot thrive separated from society. However, a society reliant on the government rather than each other is living life just waiting for the bottom to fall out.

Not long ago, in our own community, I witnessed small farms absolutely crippled by the sudden loss of government funding. It’s heartbreaking and infuriating but also served as a confirmation to me-- I do not wish to rely on the government.

Keeping chickens, growing food, using plants as medicine, saving seeds, cooking from scratch, learning new skills, these are all things that build resiliency. This is not something designated for poor people or the folks who didn’t go to college.

The belief that we could somehow be too civilized or above doing the things that sustain life is delusional. No matter what is in my bank account, I will find my way to the garden. I will thank the chicken for its life before dispatching it. I will not waste food. It’s written on my heart to honor and respect the land we are stewarding.

This isn’t a money thing.

I’m not saying planting a garden is going to win a war or stop all the monstrosities happening every day, but it’s a damn good place to start.

March 4th 2026

The remaining snow clings to shadowed areas and shrinking heaps along the winding driveway. The forecast is calling for snow later this week, but we hope that plowing is behind us.

The orange sherbert sunrise is promising of a beautiful day and I have a few small garden tasks I'd like to cross off my list. Since I have a new baby, I keep my expectations low and celebrate even the smallest of accomplishments. (I brushed my teeth last night and this morning, yay!)

Chicks chirp and peep from the basement brooder. For now, nine babies are warm and snug in an open storage container with a heat lamp secured overhead. A single frame from a wire shelf fits over the top. In a few weeks I will move them into a larger, enclosed run.

Care for them is pretty straightforward. An egg carton holds their high protein, chick feed. The indents intended for eggs are the perfect feeding troughs for tiny beaks. Pine bedding flakes cover the plastic bottom and a water dispenser sits in the corner. Immediately upon bringing them home, I made sure to dip their beaks in the water so they know where to find it.

Only a week ago, I surprised my 5 year old son, Leo, after preschool, with the news that we would be picking up chicks. That was a premeditated move-- tell a young kid something too early and they annoy you to death about it.

At Fleet Farm, Leo was bursting and more than amused with the egg stickers stuck to the linoleum floor directing us to the chicks, located in the back of the store.

Multiple stock tanks were filled with little fluff balls scurrying about. Each stock tank was fitted with a heat lamp. A sign near each tank had the name, picture and basic information pertaining to each chicken breed. I had an idea what I wanted based on their website.

Tucked into a ventilated cardboard box, Amber Links, Buff Orphingtons and Easter Eggers chirped and pecked at the sides.

I chose the breeds for simple reasons. Amber Links are known to be excellent layers, 300 eggs a year. Buff Orphingtons are known as the golden retriever of chickens and have a large stature. A friend told me they are perfect chickens for kids. Easter Eggers lay blue eggs and that is my son's favorite color. Also, I like the natural beauty of a colorful egg basket. The thought of potentially hatching out chicks from an Easter Egger /Rhode Island Red (our rooster) cross sounds fun too-- the hens may lay green eggs.

Once in the car, my son held the box on his lap and told me, in the cutest, most sincere little voice, "I'm so excited. I just love them so much." I thought that the likelihood of him loving the chicks to death was high, so I held onto them for the ride home. It was a cold day, so I cranked the heat and held them near the vent.

At home, I already had the brooder setup. If I had to set everything up while they were in the cardboard box I probably would have had fatalities. One chick was looking a little less than great at first, but after sitting in the heat for a few hours and drinking electrolyte water, she was perky like the others.

In an effort to avoid deaths, I made a rule with Leo that we wouldn't be holding them on the first day. I figured they needed some time to warm up from the drive and get acclimated to their new surroundings. Better safe than sorry.

Now, a week later, the chicks are already noticeably bigger and caring for them has been a fun addition to our day.

Later

The afternoon sun tempts me to ditch my jacket. The ground squishes under my boots with each step towards the raspberry bushes. Julia happily bounces in the carrier I managed to wrap around me. I feel like I'm caught in Cat's Cradle. Pruners feel familiar in my hand and I'm eager to do anything related to gardening.

The snow has receded, but icy patches persist in poorly draining areas. It is a great time to study the land. I make a mental note to take photos so I know where willows and button bushes would best thrive.

The raspberries I need to prune are called Double Gold and I'm not sold on them just yet. They are a gorgeous coral color when ripe and supposedly taste like candy.

Last fall, they grew large and bushy. I dug out and transplanted the suckers in hopes that a smaller bush would focus it's energy on setting and ripening fruit. My plan almost worked. They set fruit for the first time, but the frost came by September 7th and took them all out before I could taste a single one. I wasn't completely surprised, I was warned of this by a Zone 4 gardener, known as, Wholefedhomestead, on Instagram.

Double Gold is typically grown as a fall berry. However, by not pruning it down to the ground in fall, the first-year canes will bud next spring and (hopefully) grow summer berries.

So, my task for today is to cut the second-year canes. They are easy to spot because they are grey colored and look dead. The first-year canes have buds on them and are a brown color.

With gloved hands I cut each dead cane to the ground. The buds on the second-year canes (called floricanes) are promising and inspire me to take a walk and see other budding plants.

My hydrangeas and lilacs bloom on old wood. To be sure I don't prune next seasons blooms by mistake, I wait until I can clearly see buds on my hydrangeas. Leaving the dried blooms adds winter interest anyway.

My lilac is still a baby, and I have no reason to prune it.

We had a very cold winter, so seeing the buds clearly on the woody stems is encouraging and relieving.

Today, while sap runs and ice breaks, I exhale. I reflect.

We kept the house heated. The animals survived. The pipes didn't freeze. We managed the vehicle breakdowns and power outages. Winter is renewing and restful. It holds so much beauty, but it can also be harsh and unforgiving.

Years ago, I came across a painting of a thunderstorm. The sky was dark and wind was bending the treetops. In the corner, tucked safely in her nest, a momma bird lay over her hatchlings. The name of the painting was, A Picture of Peace. I think of that painting often. I'm reminded that peace can coexist with turmoil. Peace can thrive in a storm. As I navigate life, in every season, I hope to be like the momma bird in that painting, protecting her nest by being a peacemaker.

The glass refracting outdoor rays makes it hard to believe it's 14F degrees outside, but that's February in Wisconsin. Truthfully, I have grown to be cold hardy. Food has pulled me into a comfortable relationship with the cold. If I zoomed out I would say I eat seasonlly, if I zoomed in I would say I eat with the weather. Cold, dark mornings lead me to a pot of simmering oats on the stovetop. Hot, summer afternoons sends me in search of cucumbers and tomatoes within tangled vines. I'm not legalistic in my eating habits, but eating with a consciousness of my environment does increase my overall satisfaction with the meal. Chili feeds the soul on a crisp, autumn day. Chili on a muggy summer day feeds the stomach.

We are in a battle between freeze and thaw and today freeze prevails, but the sun is shining and I feel like a pinball machine with new energy boucing through my body.

I grab an orange out of a wire basket on the table. Since it's organic and unwaxed, I carefully peel the skin and lay it to dry on paper towels. After drying for a couple days, I will crush the skins up, seal them in a jar and sprinkle them atop cranberry bars or over beets.

I slice into the naked orange and peel the sections apart. One by one, I savor each slice. I can't help but close my eyes. This is the absolute best orange I've ever tasted. If these were the kind of oranges that filled empty stockings in the 1800's, I now understand why folks were so excited to be gifted a tropical fruit.

Oranges make me think of my grandpa. He is at the end of his life now, 86 years old, in hospice care. He always said that oranges were his secret to getting through alcohol withdrawals. He would slice up oranges, peel away the skins, separate each segment and leave them to sit for a few hours. I'm not exactly sure why, but the oranges would almost crystalize and end up tasting sweeter just from sitting out. That was his snack while he sweated through his clothes and shook uncontrollably in response to not having alcohol in his system.

My grandpa is a heavily flawed individual. I think we all could probably think of someone in our life who fits that bill. Being flawed does not stop me from loving him, but I can achowledge, he has problems bigger than anyone could ever help him overcome.

The compliment I am most proud of that my writing ever received was from my college literature professor. The first assignment he gave us was to write about anything. 300 words. I decided to write about my grandpa. When I received my paper back, in big bold letters he wrote "This is humanity!" Next to that was an A+

Capturing humanity in a raw, real way, is important to me. Although this is a bit different from my usual posts, I hope you read it.

Below is that very assignment I wrote when I was 18 years old.

Tucked away in the corner of the room, closest to the bathroom, sat an older man. His round glasses slid down his nose, but he didn’t bother fixing them as he flipped through the pages of The Tribune. Once in awhile, he exchanged a few words with the other regulars. A chuckle echoed throughout the bar as he cracked a joke. He smiled up at the bartender and without a word of direction, she filled up his glass with his usual--vodka on the rocks. Clear venom splashed over the ice cubes and slowly slid down the side of the cloudy glass. I watched intently as my grandpa lifted his scabbed bar elbows and reached for his full drink. The dim lights of P’s and Q’s bar cast a grey shadow on his red face, but his smile shined through.

I slid into the familiar bar stool beside my grandpa and waited patiently for him to realize that his granddaughter was sitting next to him. My grandpa is far from senile, maybe a little near-sighted, far-sighted, and buzzed, but not senile. Seconds passed by and I wondered how he came to this point-- sitting at a bar, alone, unaware his granddaughter was next to him.

Thirty years ago, my grandpa was unattached to the bottle. He was known for his wits and savviness. He traveled around the world as an airline pilot. He turned a set of blueprints and a dream into a successful restaurant. He expanded, and his one restaurant multiplied into five. He had a beautiful wife, and four, healthy children. He bought himself and his family the lake house they always dreamed of and his own private plane so they could fly there anytime they wanted. He bought Cub’s season tickets behind the dugout, but never attended a game. He bought himself a 1969 Corvette, just to look at. Newspaper articles praising his accomplishments frequently popped up in the paper. His life was once a success story.

My grandpa has never told me exactly why he started drinking. The car accident that killed my uncle, his son, when he was 19 years old, could be the reason. Maybe it's not for me to know or tell. But, somewhere in between drinks, my grandpa’s life fell apart.

What I never understood was my grandpa’s contentment. He sipped his drink and read his paper in complete tranquility. It was as if he knew his life was once good and he accepted that it could not have lasted forever.

He held onto his wife and Cub’s tickets without giving up his drinking hand. He sold his plane, his Corvette, his restaurants. It all gave him more money to play with in the stock market. He downsized from a five bedroom, brick, home to a modest condo in Palatine, walking distance from his favorite bar.

Amidst my thoughts, The Tribune lowered, and uncovered my grandpa’s glassy eyes. His mouth slowly curled into a smile.

“What a good kid!” He exclaimed. “Visiting your grandpa!”

“I have to make sure you’re still alive, Grandpa.” I laughed and leaned into his open arms for a hug. His old, cotton flannel had a permanent smell of aftershave and alcohol.

“I’ll live forever or die tryin!” he scoffed.

I sat and humored him with talk about college, The Cubs, the family. He smiled and sipped his drink like water the entire time.

I checked my phone for any missed calls and caught him staring at me in wonderment, or amusement it seemed.

I slid my phone back into my purse and turned the barstool back towards him.

“What are you staring at, Grandpa? Admiring the good looking grandkid you made?” He smacked me on the shoulder and laughed.

His smile slowly unfolded and became solemn.

“I don’t have to be worried about you, Kid,” he stated. “I know you’ll be fine.” He tuned his voice into a soft whisper and leaned in closer, as if he didn’t want the rest of the bar to hear his secret. “Don’t let success be your curse.” He gave me a wink as he gulped down the rest of his drink. At that moment, I had never learned more from my grandpa.

Is that Kraft macaroni I see?!

Jokes aside, a lot of homesteaders feel like they are simply not measuring up because they are either in the beginning stages of their homestead dream or have their homestead in a competition with Holly Jolly Homesteader on Instagram (not a real person.. and if you are.. well, sorry).

I love watching Homestead Rescue on TV. If you haven’t watched it, it is a documentary series following the Rainie family, competent Alaskan homesteaders, who travel all over the United States helping homesteaders and their failing homesteads.

Something I’ve picked up on from watching the show is that there isn’t much of a criteria to be a homesteader. All of the people have some sort of plot of land big enough to raise animals and grow food, but at times, when the Rainies pull up, all they see is a vacant piece of land and very willing people. Even before the Rainies arrive and build structures, water systems, gardens and whatever else is necessary, the folks still called themselves homesteaders. It was within them.

Each homestead they rescue is unique and is customized to the homesteader. Let me say that again. UNIQUE. There is not a homestead starter pack they handout. Of course, we all need food, shelter and water, but not all families need a dairy cow. Not all land is conducive for in ground gardening. Some people live in the woods, some live in the mountains, others experience predator issues, others don’t. My point is, everyone’s homestead should be built around the needs of the homesteaders and the capacities and characteristics of the land.

Very often, I cringe at gardening advice. Some well-meaning individual gives out gardening advice to all, not considering that gardening conditions are different all over the world. I cannot imagine what it would be like to garden in Guam. I don’t know the first thing about Guam, so I would not tell you gardening in Guam is even remotely similar to gardening in northern Wisconsin. Yet, often times, gardening is presented (or sold) in a one size fits all package and when the consumer fails, they think it’s their fault.

Social media can be great for inspiration, connections and at times, education. But like anything I consume, I have to make sure it’s beneficial for me. If I feel in my spirit that someone’s content is selling something false, I choose to disengage. I enjoy the homesteading content that comes across as, this is what I’m doing, rather than, this is what you should do.

But sometimes, I just feel jealous. Which is a me problem. If I feel that tingle well up from the depths of my human flesh, I remind myself that God is not going to give away the blessings he designated for me. Also, I have to ask myself, do I really want what they have? Do I want to milk a cow every morning and evening? Do I need that much milk? Do I have time to care for that many animals? Do I even like the taste of lamb? Do we eat that many canned vegetables?

No, the answer is no.

So then, the question arises, do I even have a homestead? Is what I’m doing enough? Maybe this will free you like it freed me: your homestead life is up to you.

Before living in Wisconsin, we lived in Northern Illinois. In my suburban backyard, surrounded by a 6-foot picket fence, I learned to grow a variety of vegetables. In that small kitchen, I learned to can, bake bread and cook many things from scratch. We tapped our backyard sugar maple to make syrup. I began sourcing our meat from local farms. To some, what I was doing, is homesteading. But if I’m being honest, to me, it was not. I was a homesteader at heart without the homestead.

Our land was restricting. I couldn’t have chickens, or any other livestock animal. Foraging was risky because of the amount of pollution in the water and air. My husband couldn’t hunt nearby. For us, homesteading, meant buying more land in an area with more natural resources and overall, more land to grow, raise and hunt our food.

Here’s the thing: that may not be your desire. Maybe you thrive in the suburban homestead setting. Maybe you consider yourself a homesteader because you grow medicinal herbs on your balcony and shop at the local farmers market. Homesteading is not a club that only lets you in if you produce 75% of all you consume. And yet, I feel many strive to hit some sort of mark, some kind of number to justify their homestead worthiness. Goals are not inherently wrong, and neither is producing what you can, but if the desire comes from a place of contempt, then maybe the why you are working with needs a rescue.

I could poetically articulate why I homestead but truthfully, what matters, is that you decide for yourself why you homestead.

What would your homestead look like if social media didn’t exist?

What animals do you feel your land and family would benefit from?

What food are you buying every week that you could grow?

In what ways could you be a producer rather than consumer?

What does your homestead look like?

I think it’s normal for that answer to change over time, to be continually observed, shaped and pruned to bear the most fruit.

I would love to hear where you are coming from, what your homestead looks like and what it means to you. Comment below!