So, I definitely do not even remember writing that blog post from almost a year ago (or creating this blog, for that matter). That being said, I like it. It's a good introduction. But instead of filling in all the missing pieces, I'm just going to start where I'm at.
Chelsea and I just got back from our honeymoon, which was very restful and much-needed. We are taking off most of December (with the exception of the ever busy week before Christmas), then introducing a winter CSA starting in January.
In college I took a World Religions class taught by a Disciples of Christ minister in Macon, Janetta Cravens. We spent an equal amount of time on each of the world's five major religions: Buddhism, Islam, Judaism, Christianity, and Hinduism. I loved Dr. Cravens' thoughtful lectures, especially when we would begin to discuss a new religion. She would start class by saying something like, "It is with much sadness that we now leave Judaism. I love Judaism's strong sense of story and place, the rootedness in history that comes with that, and the great rituals that bind the community of believers. Although I am sad to leave Judaism, it is with much joy that we now take a look at Islam." I always admired the poignancy of that transition. She had a unique ability to sum up what was great and beautiful about each religion in a couple of sentences before moving on to the next.
I am always reminded of these poignant transitions when we see the seasons change on the farm. Upon returning to the farm this weekend, after the hustle and bustle of the wedding, the parade of colors, the euphoria of that great celebration, everything appears still, as if the entire farm just began hibernating for winter. And so, it is with much sadness that we now leave fall. Chelsea and I always claim fall as our favorite season, although we are most likely to claim that in late summer when the heat and humidity no longer feel bearable. Here in middle Georgia, the grass stays green and many of the leaves refuse to change until we get our first frost sometime in early to mid-November. Fall here is green, although not quite green like spring. September and October are our driest months, so fall is a bit dusty but also full of color: the leaves start to change, colorful greens and root crops come back in season, the last of the summer crops keep producing until a frost or the plague take them down. After the unrelenting heat of late summer, the cooler temperatures of fall give everything a boost of energy. Fall is exuberant, it is the celebration before hibernation.
Despite the sadness of leaving fall, it is with much excitement and pleasure that we begin winter. Winter is a stark, beautiful time on the farm. The trees are bare, the grass is dusty brown, and sometimes standing in the middle of the empty pecan orchard the entire earth feel still. Of course, there are snakes burrowed underground asleep and mice rummaging around for warmth and food. But, just looking out at the big picture, it feels as though the whole farm is suspended in time indefinitely. The air is cooler, the light is lower, the sap is running down to the roots. Our mild winters allow us to grow a wide range of crops in the ground through the winter, so we don't have to rely on root cellars and storage crops. Nonetheless, even the root crops and greens in the field are a bit more gnarly and toughened by the winter. Winter foods feel dense, like everything from the year is being locked away inside of them. You feel rooted when you eat them, as if you yourself are burrowed safe underground like the field mice.
So, as our winter break begins I feel entirely rooted. Yesterday, I stayed in my pajamas all day for the first time in years. I stoked the fire all day, slowly warming the house up to the idea of us being home. Delilah and I walked around and looked at everything, picked a few turnips, fed the chickens. I left one of our last chickens from last fall in the stew pot for a few hours, then made three pots of soup. We did not need three pots of soup (we have a refrigerator full of random leftovers people brought for the week of the wedding), but I needed to make three pots of soup. The first was a turnip soup, made with a single gigantic Gold Ball turnip, several Hakurei turnips, a few sprigs of rosemary and glugs of red wine, enriched with chicken stock. The second was a potato soup, made with the last few yellow potatoes, the green skins cut off, and a few of those great Japanese sweet potatoes. The last was a chicken and greens soup, made with most of the meat off the soup chicken, spinach, chard, turnip greens, collards, and the remains from a jar of smoky tomato sauce. I thought about trying to call friends to see if anyone wanted to share a bowl of soup and stories from the wedding or their Thanksgivings, but I decided against it. This was an afternoon for us to feel at home, to feel grounded, and to take root in this place. It is going to be a good winter.
