MANAGING INSPIRATION.

I recently had a rare, unmitigated evening to spend with Netflix. And it was outstanding––for lack of a more accurate word. This is probably old news to normal humans, but I discovered that Netflix had done an original series called "Chef's Table" which was, to put it mildly, the most inspiring thing.For those of you who don't know, I used to cook professionally. You can read about this in my smash hit series of memoirs Bringing Wine Home (Book Three out next year... maybe), but I actually moved to New York to cook professionally. After a while, though, I realized what I'd truly moved to NYC to do was drink, so I did that professionally for a few years instead to, ahem, staggering success.That being said, I still have a deep affection for, and a personal interest in, cooking. In chefs. In kitchens. As a farmer, I'm always looking to better understand the modern chef. As an ex-cook, I enjoy seeing how the world of cooking is changing. And few things have more throughly updated me than this series.Indeed, all of the featured chefs and restaurants in this series left me feeling profoundly inspired about food, about farming, about cooking and how these world's can collide. And it has also left me with this giant douse of inspiration with which I have no idea what in the world to do.One thing is for certain, Chef's Table definitely italicized, underlined and put in bold my desire to grow the most flavorful, most nutritious food I can. There is moment in one episode where chef Dan Barber asks a plant breeder if he can breed a smaller, more flavorful butternut squash for him. The breeder looks back at Barber, wipes his glasses––his own glasses, not Barber's––and says something to the effect of, "In all my years of plant breeding, no one has ever asked me to breed for flavor." And suddenly, a million loose chords in my brain connected themselves and the resulting light will not turn off.We really don't think enough about flavor as consumers, nor as farmers. We think about yields. We think about symmetry, gloss and appeal. We grow in greenhouses and under lights to better control the environment and push for food out of season––flavorful or not, perfect looking food. And although Hannah and I completely understand the need for this kind of farming, and have nothing against anyone who grows this way, we have no real interest in it for ourselves. We want to grow healthy food, outdoors. Even if it's harder. Even if it's less profitable. Even if it's uglier. As Masanobu Fukuoka put it in One Straw Revolution, "...proper nourishment is inseparable from good flavor." Great flavor, that's what we're after––that's where the health is.Anyway, from time to time I run into something as inspiring as this series and my whole view of the world changes. It happened when I first read Anthony Bourdain's Kitchen Confidential, and decided to be a chef. It happened again when I read Kermit Lynch's Adventures on the Wine Route, and my entire perspective on what wine could be––nay, should be––shifted. Then of course, The Omnivore's Dilemma, by Michael Pollan, planted the seed that ultimately grew into farming. What the seed from this documentary will turn into is hard to say. But it's germinating. I can feel it. And I'm curious––if I may lightly abuse the analogy––to see what fruit it will bear. I'll bet it will be tasty.- Jesse 

DAY OFF DAY.

It's around 6:30 a.m., I'm drinking coffee, writing this post, chatting with my beautiful wife, watching Further adroitly manipulate his bouncer, and just generally relaxing. And it feels amazing. Usually at this time I would be anxiously pounding away at an upcoming article while haphazardly preparing breakfast so that I could get into the fields. But not today. Today is Sunday, and I'm taking the darn thing off.I haven't been taking days off this year. Not really. It's been too busy, and we've been shorthanded. Of course, not taking days off is very common for farmers. And since we dry farm––that is, we do not use irrigation––we don't always get to have the luxury of choosing which days work best to take off. If the soil is ready, we work.But I've realized I need these days off. I need a consistent day that I can just do what I want to do without the pressure of the garden weighing on me. The pigs still have to be fed, and the chickens, cats and dog. But I have been overdoing it a lot lately. I vomited while picking garlic this year. I caught myself on the verge of exhaustion or dehydration multiple times. Stress has been high. This, as you can imagine, is not sustainable.Sustainability, of course, is the goal. We say it often, but sustainability is not just about how you farm, but how you feel after farming. It needs to be viewed holistically. One can not be sustainable if they are going down several days a year due to overworking.So Sundays it is. And when it can't be Sundays (like in the Spring when you literally might only get one day a week to work the soil), it will be another day. If we are going to make this a sustainable life, we need a day off. We need a day to chat, drink coffee, make faces at babies and write blog posts about it, because that's what we want to do. Of course, as I finish this post––I kid you not––I look out into our yard and see a piggy on the loose. Oh well. Perhaps days off are more of a state of mind, which will have to be good enough today.- Jesse.

PIGS IN THE WOODS.

We are having mixed feelings about the pigs lately.We love the pigs. We love raising pigs. It makes a lot of sense for our farm and our land. But somedays, it is really, REALLY frustrating.We raise our pigs in the woods, rotating them frequently in small paddocks using solar-electrified fencing. This means that every time we move them we end up getting the fence caught on every twig and briar and branch, every few seconds. Tripping over hidden rocks and logs, falling in the mud and poison ivy, cursing the heavens. It means that when a pig gets OUT, as it definitely will sometimes, we end up chasing that pig through the woods in the middle of the night. and that means more cursing. It is, as I said, frustrating.We dream of having pastured pigs. Or stationary pigs. Pigs that stay put and don't require a stumbling five minute walk through a dense cedar forest with two five gallon buckets every day. Plus, we have plans to do more faming in our woods - mushrooms, nut trees, nettles, and so on. Pigs don't exactly fit into that plan.But then we move them into a fresh paddock, and they are so happy. SO happy. They are romping around, chomping on nuts and making gleeful piggy sounds, and it is clear that this is how they should be raised, as maddening as it is at times.- Hannah.

THE FEVER.

Every year, from May until Julyish––it's not much of a science––things get hard on the farm. Not just physically hard, but emotionally, too. I go through this period of feeling totally and utterly overwhelmed. There is so much work to do, and try as I may it doesn't seem to decrease with effort. It increases, mockingly. The feeling is hard to explain. In some ways, it feels like ordinary stress. In other ways, it sorta feels hopeless.But I've also learned that this overwhelmed feeling acts very much like a fever. It builds and builds and builds until the point in which I wonder if I can even go on another week. Then without warning it just disappears, and my mood returns like "Hey what's up?" I suddenly feel completely normal again. I suddenly feel healthy and happy. I suddenly feel like what we do is possible.It's uncanny how reliable it is––that the fever will come and the fever will break at some point in time. But also, I'm glad it's reliable. The first year I had it, I really thought I was not going to be able to survive as a farmer. Then in late July it broke and I was back to normal, excited to be a farmer again. Sane.Is it avoidable? Not sure. I think the more set-up we become on our farmstead, and the better I become at planning and managing the farm––yes. Yes, it will at least one day become a smaller, or more tolerable fever. But until then I have to rely on the fact that it will come, but it will also go away eventually. It is not terminal. This too shall pass. Take a nap, eat some tomato sandwiches, and call me in the morning. If I can keep that in mind, I will always make it through, like I did this week. Like I do every year. Like always.- Jesse.