It’s not a great excuse for such a long blog silence, but I’ve been on vacation. Matt and I visited family and friends in San Francisco, headed to New York City for a few days, and then went on to a farming conference in Pennsylvania. February is conference season for farmers—we’re caught at a slack time, cooped up inside for a few days with incredible, innovative farmers, and we return to our farms with a burst of energy just before the growing season begins. Before vacation, we went to Saratoga Springs for our first conference of the season. Luke is headed to a dairy conference in Auburn, and I think a Vermont conference is on the horizon for Sam and Brooke.
My feelings are predictable after a conference. I come back to the farm super-charged, grand visions of new tools to buy or build, little tweaks and big changes. I like to give myself to overexcitement for a day or two, and then I reel in. I digest the whole thing, try to figure out what would actually work and what changes are, for now, better left as dreams.
One big change for this season is irrigation. We have rapidly draining soil, and after last year’s dry summer, it’s clear that having no plan for irrigation is just reckless. I’ve been staring down a brutal lack of experience on my part and trying to learn as much as I can. I’ve got some ideas, but next on the list is calling every vegetable grower I can get my hands on.
I have very little idea of what has happened on the farm in the past two weeks, so sorry this post is short on farm news. We got some round bales delivered for the beef herd. We gave up on keeping any winter greens in the hoophouse, and now the laying flock is inhabiting the whole thing—we are getting over 100 eggs daily. We are nearing 11 hours of daylight each day, and things are getting ready to really grow.
In lieu of news, let’s talk ideas. In this planning season, I’ve been feeling the little stresses of the unknown. I am making long spreadsheets of seeds to order and when to plant them, plans for how we will harvest and water, and wondering—will we have enough food? Will we have too much food? Who will buy it? Will we have time to harvest and sell it all? Are we getting a good price?
I keep coming back to the money thing. Some farmers use metrics to determine a fair price for their food, weighing seed cost, man hours, fuel, and a handful of other factors, but I can’t help feeling something is lost here. It’s an abstraction and those are only sometimes helpful, but I am trying to see the food that we grow and raise as a gift.
I’m conflicted about this mind frame I’m trying on. What does it mean? How can I make any money if, instead of selling food, I give it away? I am a farmer, a businessperson hoping to make a life for myself, to someday live in a comfortable house, to take vacations, to retire. But farming is a peculiar business. The food we grow feels so special, and so hard won, that any monetary value we place on it seems meaningless. What do you pay for security? It would be incredible if, at our Farmstand, instead of weighing pounds of potatoes and paying us an arbitrary price, customers reciprocated our gift of food with a gift of the value the food had to them. It would more often than not be money, but maybe it would be a lesson, or time, or a bunch of really funny jokes for a bunch of carrots.
My feelings are predictable after a conference. I come back to the farm super-charged, grand visions of new tools to buy or build, little tweaks and big changes. I like to give myself to overexcitement for a day or two, and then I reel in. I digest the whole thing, try to figure out what would actually work and what changes are, for now, better left as dreams.
One big change for this season is irrigation. We have rapidly draining soil, and after last year’s dry summer, it’s clear that having no plan for irrigation is just reckless. I’ve been staring down a brutal lack of experience on my part and trying to learn as much as I can. I’ve got some ideas, but next on the list is calling every vegetable grower I can get my hands on.
I have very little idea of what has happened on the farm in the past two weeks, so sorry this post is short on farm news. We got some round bales delivered for the beef herd. We gave up on keeping any winter greens in the hoophouse, and now the laying flock is inhabiting the whole thing—we are getting over 100 eggs daily. We are nearing 11 hours of daylight each day, and things are getting ready to really grow.
In lieu of news, let’s talk ideas. In this planning season, I’ve been feeling the little stresses of the unknown. I am making long spreadsheets of seeds to order and when to plant them, plans for how we will harvest and water, and wondering—will we have enough food? Will we have too much food? Who will buy it? Will we have time to harvest and sell it all? Are we getting a good price?
I keep coming back to the money thing. Some farmers use metrics to determine a fair price for their food, weighing seed cost, man hours, fuel, and a handful of other factors, but I can’t help feeling something is lost here. It’s an abstraction and those are only sometimes helpful, but I am trying to see the food that we grow and raise as a gift.
I’m conflicted about this mind frame I’m trying on. What does it mean? How can I make any money if, instead of selling food, I give it away? I am a farmer, a businessperson hoping to make a life for myself, to someday live in a comfortable house, to take vacations, to retire. But farming is a peculiar business. The food we grow feels so special, and so hard won, that any monetary value we place on it seems meaningless. What do you pay for security? It would be incredible if, at our Farmstand, instead of weighing pounds of potatoes and paying us an arbitrary price, customers reciprocated our gift of food with a gift of the value the food had to them. It would more often than not be money, but maybe it would be a lesson, or time, or a bunch of really funny jokes for a bunch of carrots.