Our Story

I blame this photo for my new love & fascination for farming.  

The man in front is my Grandfather.
The man to the right, with a hat and hands folded behind his back, is my Grandma's father.
The little boy hard at work to the left, my dad [some things never change].
The scene is in Ireland, a place I've felt a deep, overwhelming connection to from my very first visit.
I am blessed to have a father who believes we should retrace our steps.
We should experience life, smell the air, see the place of those we call family.

I remember walking into the home my grandmother was raised in, looking out into the farm her siblings tended to, standing in the church my grandparents got married in, and feeling a sense of comfort and peace.  It was a feeling I had yet to experience before, yet it was familiar, all at the same time.

For some reason, I didn't feel as though I were simply experiencing the history of my family but rather the introduction to my own story.  A story that was being written long before I even got here.  Maybe this photo, my past, served as an overture- to the melody I would now hum along too.  Maybe this explains why I feel the true essence of community at a farmers' market.  Why I believe in the earth providing all we need and find that when we step back, allowing the seasons and rivers and sun to lead, the sweetest fruit is grown and the most nutritious vegetables dwell in the soil.

I can't help bite into a pear or slice open a grapefruit and be completely amazed.
How did this grow?  How did sweet, sour, bitter and juicy fuse into one and make this.  Who plucked this from a vine or off a tree or yanked it out of the ground so I could enjoy it.
And how can I thank you?

Despite my new [or always there, just waiting to break through] interest in farming I have much to learn in this arena.  I am so thankful for this year of being surrounded by food and growing patterns, for it has taught me so much.

Although I still fall short.
I have never farmed a day in my life [couldn't tell you the name of the tool my grandpa & father are holding]

I try my very hardest to eat in season & local but sometimes, often, I give in.
[That slice of pineapple on my burger last week certainly did not grow in Connecticut] 

I love flowers.  Sunflowers reign on my list of favorites.  Yet I have never had a garden of my own.

Some vegetables still confuse me.  I want to remain open & try each kind but fail.  Kohlrabi is delicious but looks bizarre.  Eggplant remains a challenge to cook.  I know it has possibilities but somehow I am always left with something that tastes rather dull.

I admit these things not to make myself feel bad but rather to let them go.  To release them & know that while I have a long way to go, I am overjoyed of the steps I have made.

It is rather exciting to know how layered we are & how our own self can surprise us.

This photo effortlessly demonstrates a beginning of plowing the ground and a paving the way for me to do my best in planting some seeds..

Where do veggies grow?

[Almost always, the creative dedicated minority has made the world better.]

Back to the basics.  Crayons & paper are all you need.

[Human progress is neither automatic nor inevitable... Every step toward the goal of justice requires sacrifice, suffering, and struggle; the tireless exertions and passionate concern of dedicated individuals.] 

Look at that lettuce grow!

Sarah and I rockin our veggie crowns at the Yale Peabody Museum for MLK Day.

Slow Oats

From start to finish, my oats take roughly 20 minutes to make.  

I love every second of this morning ritual.  

I have come to realize that unlike practically every other action in my life, where I can be doing a handful [often times more] things simultaneously, when making my oats, I am just...making oats.   I pour water into the pot and wait patiently for it to boil.  How often do we wait patiently for anything anymore?  I wait patiently because I have too.  The oats will not cook faster if I watch them [in fact they cook much slower, as my Grandma Jul would say- a watch pot never boils Maeve] and they certainly do not when I am late for work. They cook on their own time & I must adjust.  

Once the oats go in, it is another 8-10 minutes before they are ready to eat.  Now this would be the perfect time to attend to the numerous tasks on my list: call a friend, switch the clothes from the washer to the dryer, pick up the clothes off my floor, make my bed, or check my email.  Our lists are endless.  I mean I have 10 whole minutes, I should be doing something else..right? But I choose to do nothing than what I am doing right then.  I silence the voice in my head rambling things to do and rather I wait, giving my oats my full attention.  Sure the directions on the package instruct 8-10 minutes, but my oats cannot be timed.

These oats are my discipline, allowing that other voice to be heard: stay still & wait, some things in life you cannot, will not rush.  

So, I wait.  While I wait I strategize what to put in the oats to make them even better than the day before.  More milk this time?  Less time on the stove?  Heavier on the cinnamon?  I pull the essentials out of my cupboard: honey, cinnamon, & flax seeds but always remain open to new ingredients.  Today welcomed walnuts & milk from the farmers' market.  So good.  

I am thankful for those moments where I do one task, just one at a time, from start to finish and do it well.  It may sound rather simple but I find it especially important for our peace of mind in a world where we are constantly stimulated and often times, distracted.  Find something to do, just one thing & embrace the present:)  

Good Job.

I like how when it snows everything seems to become rather quiet & still.  Loud cities cease to make noise as people decide to sneak away indoors where it is warm.  Even the busiest of people choose to merely sit, abandoning plans & to do lists because the weather serves as a reason to do...nothing at all.  

It is acceptable to cancel those plans, that you might not really have wanted to do in the first place, and just curl up by the fire & not go out.  Blaming it on your fear of driving in such conditions or your inability to see your car as it is enclosed in a mound of snow that has begun to resemble an igloo.  

Without a fire to curl up by, I sat by the window.  I decided to just sit and watch the snow fall.  

It really is quite beautiful.

As I observed the snow fall I heard the sound of a shovel.  I peered down below to find a father and son clearing a path for their mom to come home.  The dad moved like a snow plow, quickly and efficiently clearing snow to the side, rarely stopping for rest.  His son, who mustn't be older than two, helped too.  The shovel and son were almost the same size; the shovel won in stature.  Despite being so small he followed the motions of his Dad to clear the path.  Often his feet would loose balance, due to the motion of leaning with the shovel and he would fall.  Dad would turn around to make sure he was alright and the little boy would get right back up and continue the job.  His sons method of discarding the snow often resulted in it landing right back on the cleared driveway.  [This was probably the most adorable thing I had seen in like forever.]

Little clumps of snow scattered the neatly plowed path. 

When Dad did decide to take a moment and catch his breath he'd yell "Good Job!".  With as much enthusiasm and zeal as if his son were really helping to clear the path.  It didn't matter if the path wasn't clear, it didn't matter that he would probably have to retrace his steps and clear the path again.  His son was trying and looked to him as a guide.  His son was learning and experiencing.  

I couldn't help and see God's grace in this.  How we too will work with shovel in hand, clearing a path to walk down, looking to Him as a guide.  We too make a mess of the path.  We fall, trip & loose our balance and He continually praises our efforts when we choose to get up and look towards Him.