The saying goes that a mighty oak grows from a tiny acorn, but in my case a mighty pile of lumber grew from one mighty oak. Four years ago in the fall, my dad told me that The Red Oak Tree, the only one on the farm at the time, was about to be taken down by Whippoorwill Creek. The past spring, during a flood, the creek changed course and eroded the bank some 25 feet, right to the base of the oak. Dad was sure that the next flood would fell it and sweep it away. The idea of l

On Sunday evening, October 1st, 2017, a rich white man in Las Vegas opened fire with automatic assault rifles on a crowd of thousands at a country western concert. The death toll so far is 59, over 400 were injured. If you have read any of my posts on this blog, you are well aware that I grew up on a farm in Iowa. I trace much of who I am today back to that time in my life. I am honest. I know how to put in a hard day’s work and get up the next day and do it again. I kno

I flew back to Iowa a few days ago to plant trees, nearly 200 chestnut trees we received as sprouted nuts last April and are now growing in pots. Along with that, I am timing my arrival with a family reunion tradition that my mother began over 30 years ago, when everyone I know was a lot younger. Mom passed several years ago and we have missed many years of holding the hog roast, but now my dad, along with his new wife, want to revive the tradition and have asked me to cook.

I’m back with a great rendition of the sweet corn soup that Beth made last night. She had an idea that the sweetness of corn stock would be a great balance to a spicy Italian sausage that I had made recently. She got it started and after briefly conferring with me, was off to the races. As one of my mentoring chefs, Herve, used to say, “Ex-ce-lant!” (He was French.) Beth called it a “kitchen sink” soup - meaning that it was made out of the odds and ends we had lying around

Growing up on the farm in Iowa, there was one day each summer that my sisters and I dreaded, but never managed to avoid. It always arrived in late July or early August, a hot sunny clear day when my mom would suddenly announce “Don’t make any plans for tomorrow, we are cutting sweet corn.” It wasn’t horror filling or something to keep you up at night, but more of a groaned ‘Oh crap!’ because you knew from past experience what a hot, itchy, exhausting, mind numbing task lay a

Shirley Gray’s nails are painted an orangey red that matches her lips and hair. The kind of orangey red that, before Trump, was the domain of spicy, powerful grandmothers with something to say. Even with lungs that now don’t always cooperate, Gray is still as involved in her rural Iowa community as ever - if you want to know who can fix your toaster, who to talk to in the county Supervisor’s office about a hole in the road or who grows the best tomatoes in the region, Shirle

We are in Iowa, staying for the month of June. Our dog, Rosie, loves the farm more than I do, if that’s possible. She spent one of our first nights barking insults at the local coyotes who were in turn maligning nearly everyone in the area. It all ended at about 4 in the morning with the last catcall from the coyotes and some harrumphing by the dog. The next morning, she staggered off the porch to greet me when I got up at 6:30. She looked like she was hung over after a

We have been really bad about writing in this blog. It is not that we don’t have a lot to say about eating less meat (please ignore the double negative) or about moving to Iowa someday in the not so distant future. It is just that life has gotten in the way and time continues to rush by dutifully like a Swiss bullet train. I knew in the beginning when we started this that likely our motivation would wane - keeping a blog going is hard work. It takes dedication in addition

So let’s be real for a moment. Iowa is beautiful. The land is some of the most fertile on earth. Water is plentiful (unlike here in California) and in the south, hills roll green and alive like waves of pure life. But farming - even in a place like Iowa - is a profession that doesn’t pay. Not “doesn’t pay” like teachers should be paid more or cooks make so much less than waiters. No, farming at small scale like we are talking about doing on the farm literally does not mak

I barely remember Green Acres, the old TV show where city loving Eva Gabor marries a man with a dream to be a farmer. They move to the country, “Lisa” with her proper and elegant 1950s shoes and hats, he in a suit as he drives his tractor. Hilarious hijinks ensue. What I do know is that I am no Eva Gabor. I don't wear blingy jewelry. I don't speak with a dramatic Hungarian accent. And I don't wear frilly housecoats in the city or on a farm. Yet I do feel like I have inadve