A quiet corner of the house becomes a window into the rhythm of old farm life
The Secret History in the Rafters
There are places in a home that carry silence differently. Our attic is one of them. The floorboards creak with memory, and dust glows like soft smoke in the afternoon sun. At first glance, it’s just old timber and rusted hardware—until you notice the nails. Thousands of them, hammered deep into the beams.
Three thousand, give or take. They jut out like punctuation marks in a story written by hands who walked within these walls but I’ll never meet. Each nail represents a note of effort, a record of someone’s steady persistence. I remember asking my husband about them the first time I followed him upstairs. He smiled and said simply, “Corn drying nails.”
Rediscovering an Old Tradition
I had no idea what he meant. Then autumn arrived, and our blue dent corn ripened in our garden. We carried the harvest up the narrow attic stairs, a banana box full of bright, heavy ears. Instead of looping the husks and hanging them as I had envisioned, my husband pressed the cobs straight onto the nails.
It was slow, almost ceremonial work. The corn slid onto the metal with a satisfying scrape. One by one, the wall filled with color—deep blue, sun-gold, and flickers of red silk. In that dim, quiet light, the attic became a mosaic of patience and practicality.
For generations before hybridization transformed agriculture, this was how families saved their seed stock. The previous year’s corn dried high above ground, away from moisture and rodents, until it was ready to be shelled in spring and replanted. Every cob represented not just a meal, but a promise for next year’s planting—a steady thread of survival and renewal.
The Weight of Time and Work
Sometimes, when I’m up there alone, I imagine those who lived here before me. Maybe a farmer with calloused hands, wiping sweat from his temple as he climbed the attic stairs. Maybe a child trailing behind, helping to hold the basket. The air would have smelled like a granary, of earth, timber, and ripened grain—a hand-me-down scent that tied one harvest to the next.
Now the nails stand empty, gleaming faintly in the warm shadows. They hold no corn, but they still anchor something larger: a memory of endurance, a rhythm of life that didn’t depend on abundance but on balance, care, and steady effort.
Every time the wind hums through the eaves, I think of those nailed-up seasons—how work once lingered in simple materials, how love was measured in continuity, not convenience.
What Stories Live in Your Home?
Look around your own space. Maybe there’s a scuffed tabletop, a patch of paint that doesn’t quite match, or a worn stair tread that speaks of every footstep before yours. What places in your home hold quiet stories of labor and love?
Keep the Story Going
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Looking for a way to turn fresh venison into something truly delicious and shelf-stable? You’re in the right place! In this post, we’re walking through how we took a deer we recently processed and transformed it into mouthwatering homemade venison jerky—a high-protein, low-fat snack that’s perfect for hunters, hikers, and anyone who loves wholesome, from-scratch food. If you’ve ever wondered what goes into making jerky from scratch or whether smoking or dehydrating tastes better, read on—because we tested both methods side by side and have the results for you!
Processing the Venison After harvesting the deer, my husband handled the messy part—removing the hide and quartering the meat. While I didn’t snap photos of this step, it’s essential for breaking the animal down into workable portions. Once the meat was ready, we began deboning—a labor-intensive process!
But here’s the payoff: processing your own game ensures quality and freshness with the satisfaction of providing your own food. Plus, venison is leaner and lower in fat than beef, while being packed with protein, iron, and essential nutrients. It’s an excellent, heart-healthy meat to keep in rotation alongside veggies, fruits, and other proteins.
Grinding and Seasoning the Meat Once the bones were removed, we ground the tougher cuts and trimmings using our trusty meat grinder. (Ours has been a solid investment—it’s strong, doesn’t clog easily, and is simple to clean. If you’d like a product recommendation, drop a comment below!)
For seasoning, we used a Fleet Farm Original Flavor jerky seasoning mix, which offers a balanced blend of savory and slight sweetness—perfect for venison’s natural richness. We mixed the seasoning thoroughly, ensuring every bite would be flavorful, then refrigerated the seasoned meat overnight to let all those seasonings work their magic.
Shaping and Drying the Jerky The next day, we got creative with our setup. Instead of a dedicated jerky gun, we improvised with our meat grinder using a sausage tube narrowed down with a vice grip. Sometimes, homesteading means working with what you have, and this hack worked beautifully!
After shaping the jerky strips, we placed them on racks and divided our batch in two for a taste test: smoked vs dehydrated.
• Smoker: Applewood chips, 160°F, for 6 hours • Dehydrator: 160°F, for 12 hours
The Verdict: Smoked vs. Dehydrated Venison Jerky Both batches turned out delicious, but slightly on the dry side—a note for next time!
The applewood smoked jerky, however, stole the show. The smoky aroma, subtle sweetness, and depth of flavor make it hard to beat. If you’re on the fence about getting out the smoker, trust me—it’s worth it.
Smoked or dehydrated, homemade venison jerky tastes incredible, packs well for adventures, and gives you that satisfying “I made this!” pride every time you open a bag.
Final Thoughts and Tips Making homemade venison jerky takes time, but it’s incredibly rewarding. You know exactly what’s going into your food, it’s healthier than store-bought, and it captures the true flavor of the hunt.
If you’re new to jerky-making, I recommend experimenting with both smoking and dehydrating to see which method suits your taste best. Adjust drying time slightly to achieve your ideal texture.
Join the Conversation! Have you made venison jerky before? What seasoning blend or wood smoke do you swear by? Comment below—I’d love to hear your tips! And if you enjoyed this post: 👉 Like, share, and subscribe for more homesteading, cooking, and DIY food adventures. Your support helps us keep creating helpful content for folks like you!
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The “Three Sisters” — corn, beans, and squash — show what true collaboration looks like. Rooted in ancient Indigenous wisdom, this companion-planting method isn’t just sustainable; it’s a living model of balance.
Corn stands tall and strong, offering the beans a natural trellis. The beans return the favor, fixing nitrogen that enriches the soil. Meanwhile, squash sprawls across the ground, shading the earth to keep in moisture and crowd out weeds. Together, they form a self-sustaining ecosystem — one that thrives through cooperation and reciprocity.
A Lesson Replanted
I first learned about the Three Sisters in grade school, probably around Thanksgiving, during a brief mention of Indigenous agricultural knowledge. I didn’t think much of it then. But last year, while searching for more sustainable gardening methods, the lesson resurfaced. Curious and skeptical, I decided to try it myself.
Armed with blue dent corn seeds for homemade tortillas, pinto beans for the adventure, and leftover spaghetti squash seeds (because I couldn’t justify buying more), I planted in late May. The corn went in first, followed by the beans once the stalks reached ten inches, and then the squash two weeks after that.
A Living Experiment
To my delight, the beans twined effortlessly up the corn, just as promised. The old squash seed lagged behind but eventually pushed through, turning what looked like a “Two Sisters” garden into a full trio. For good measure, I added spent oyster mushroom substrate from another homestead experiment. Volunteer cherry tomatoes, which I didn’t have the heart to thin, soon joined the party — a wild, happy sprawl of coexistence.
Harvest and Harmony
By October, our small 25×10-foot plot had given us a treasure: a banana box of blue dent corn drying in the attic, a pound of pinto beans, and two proud spaghetti squashes still ripening. Even the leftover oyster mushroom spawn revived after each rain, and cherry tomatoes kept offering up baskets of surprises — nature’s generous encore.
Seeing this ancient partnership unfold transformed a childhood lesson into something alive and immediate. The “Three Sisters” reminded me that balance isn’t about control — it’s about trust, patience, and reciprocity.
Looking Ahead
Next spring, we’ll start earlier and use fresh squash seeds. But even now, the garden has offered more than food — it’s fed our curiosity, connection, and hope. My son’s dreaming of blue tortilla chips, and I’m dreaming of next year’s lessons, both in the soil and beyond it.
Your Turn
Have you ever grown something that changed how you see the world? Share your story in the comments — and if this post inspired you, give it a like, share it with a fellow grower, and subscribe for more gardening stories!
The first sound I remember from that trip wasn’t birdsong or the crackle of firewood—it was my professor’s baritone voice drifting through a soft Michigan mist. Waking to that unlikely serenade, I understood for the first time that geology wasn’t only about rocks. It was about connection.
I was a sophomore then, half-frozen in an April campsite among classmates who still felt like strangers. We shivered through fog, stumbled through tent poles, and passed trail mix in squeaky vans that smelled of sunscreen and coffee. By the time we gathered around cast-iron pots of jambalaya that evening, laughter had cracked the surface. Those strangers were already turning into companions.
That weekend held a dozen firsts—my first field notes, my first tent pitched incorrectly, my first realization that landscapes told stories. Stratigraphy became a language: layers pressed with memory, stone turned to archive. We spent days trudging through mud, tracing formations in notebooks, learning to see the earth as something alive. Nights filled with smoke and banjo chords, the kind of tiredness that makes everything simple, everything good.
Fifteen years later, the same circle still gathers—different campsite, different season, same warmth. We no longer ride in university vans. Now we drive in caravans of minivans and hybrids, dogs panting in the back seats, children singing off-key. Some arrive with spouses, children, and dogs, others with partners who share different rhythms of life. Each presence matters. The ones without kids often become the fresh energy in the group—playing with children, keeping traditions, reminding us that life is not only about caretaking but also about curiosity, independence, and joy on one’s own terms.
The jambalaya has been replaced by pudgie pies browned over coals, each stuffed with cheese, vegetables, and pepperoni. Mornings rise with a tangle of sounds—an infant crying, kids chasing dogs, coffee sputtering in a percolator. The hikes are shorter, the pace slower, but the laughter feels unchanged. We talk about work, gardening, art, and aging parents. Between stories of milestones and mishaps, the old tales surface too—professors coaxing us to read the earth, tents blown loose in South Dakota, the mud and sand that never washed out of our journals.
Geology taught me that layers never vanish; they shift and hold. Those early days formed the base layer of my life: dusty trails, notes stained with wonder, campfires burning into friendship. Above them, new layers rise—my child tugging tent cords, friends trading stories across the fire, dogs circling the light.
Sometimes I still hear my professor’s voice through the morning hush, calling across time. It echoes now in the laughter of friends, the shouts of children, the quiet gratitude of belonging. Like the rocks I once studied, I carry every layer within me. Together, they form not just a good life—but a whole one.
What places or experiences have left layers in your life—ones you still carry years later? I’d love to hear your story in the comments.
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Just months ago, the price of eggs soared past $7 a dozen—triple what most people were used to paying. A food so ordinary it’s almost invisible suddenly looked like a luxury. Prices have since eased, but the memory lingers: how did something so basic get so expensive? And why did the shock land so unevenly—upending some farms while leaving others steady?
On our farm, a dozen eggs still sells for $4. That number has barely budged in years. While supermarket prices swung wildly, ours held firm. The contrast is more than a curiosity. It hints at how food really travels from barnyard to breakfast table.
The spike began with avian influenza. In 2022 and 2023, the virus swept through major poultry operations, wiping out more than 43 million egg-laying hens nationwide. When a third of the national flock disappears, supply collapses and prices shoot up. Industrial farmers also faced surging costs for feed, fuel, and transport. A production system designed for tight efficiency became brittle: when disease struck, the whole country felt it at the checkout line.
Small farms like ours face the same threats, but the impact lands differently. Three features matter most:
Flock diversity. We keep mixed-breed, free-range hens. Losing a handful to illness is painful, but a single disease rarely jumps across breeds with equal force. Uniform flocks in industrial barns don’t have that buffer.
Local sourcing. Most of our feed comes from what we can grow or source locally. Last winter, when global grain costs spiked, our stockpile of grain grown during the previous year was still there, and the cost to produce it did not change. That insulation saved us from the roller coaster.
Short supply chains. Our eggs travel from our house to their house, a distance of less than ten miles, not five hundred to a distribution hub. Fuel hikes and cold-storage fees barely touch us.
That structure explains why our price holds steady. $4 a dozen looks high when the grocery store is running specials at $2. But when shelves empty or sticker shock sets in, suddenly our carton looks like the bargain. What customers are buying isn’t just eggs—they’re buying reliability.
Of course, small farms can’t replace industrial ones. We don’t feed cities by the million, and local food generally costs more up front. Volume and convenience still matter. But the lesson of the egg crisis isn’t that one system must win. It’s that balance matters. Industrial agriculture delivers abundance when conditions are smooth. Small farms deliver stability when they’re not. Together they form a more resilient food web than either system could alone.
And “smooth” is becoming rare. Disease, war, fuel shocks, and extreme weather tug constantly at a tightly wound system. When that system cracks, as we saw with eggs, the cost gets passed to the consumer.
There’s another way to measure value. It’s not the absolute lowest price when times are calm—it’s the carton that’s still there, at the same price, when times are not. In food, resilience isn’t a luxury. It may be the most essential ingredient of all.
Next time you crack an egg into the pan, think about how far it traveled to get there. If you want your breakfast to come with stability as well as protein, consider keeping part of your food dollar close to home. The steadiness might taste better than you expect.
What is the true cost of cheap food—and what values should guide us when something as everyday as eggs suddenly becomes a luxury? Share your thoughts below, and subscribe to join a group of like-minded people.
It rained all day, the steady drizzle blurring the view until the house itself seemed to shrink under the low sky.Inside, cabin fever crept in, making the kitchen feel tight.
My husband and I worked quietly together, turning weekend cherries into wine. The air was thick—crushed fruit, sugar, and the steam hissed from the pot. Our five-year-old son and toddler daughter darted through, their energy outsized for the cramped space. Warnings mingled with their laughter—don’t run near the stove, watch for hot water.
“It’s dangerous,” I said, gripping the kettle handle; my heartbeat quickened.
For a while, the kids took turns crushing fruit.
“Look, Mom! I figured out how to remove the cherry pits more quickly!” My older child said as he mashed enthusiastically, intent on the task.
Suddenly, our toddler screeched—a wild, pterodactyl sound—snatching the masher and stabbing at the cherries. “Me too!” she demanded.
“Hey!” my son yelled, trying to pull it back. Their fight was all quick hands and hot tempers, cherry seeds flung aside, sugar water hissing.
“Enough!” My voice cracked through the kitchen as the mess and worry spilled out in a single word. Silence, except for the rain tapping on glass. My son’s face twisted in frustration; his sister clutched the masher, sticky-fingered, defiant.
I knelt, arms open. The toddler crawled in—fight gone soft. Her brother retreated to the corner, assembling wooden toys with deliberate care, humming the Pirates theme he always chose after a storm.
Across the room, my husband and I exchanged tired, knowing smiles.
The toddler perched on a chair, popped cherries, painted crescents on her lips. The kitchen warmed—patience hemming in chaos, the air rich with fruit.
After a while, my son returned, holding out a contraption of wood and rubber bands. “Look, Mom! I made an articulating loader. See? This part turns.” I pulled him close, inspected the jumble. His pride shone brighter than any accuracy. Rain blurred the world outside. Inside the kitchen, cherries stained little fingers, the air still warm and sweet. My son tinkered at the table, my daughter perched on a chair, chewing with slow satisfaction. We breathed together in that small space, finding each other again in the hush after the storm.
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They say food is a universal language, but sometimes, it also has a quiet legacy.
Eleven years ago, I was on a road trip with my mom, aunt, and sister when we stopped at a small restaurant and ordered Swedish meatballs. I still remember how delicious they were: comforting, perfectly spiced, and unforgettable.
That afternoon, my aunt casually mentioned that she had a recipe of her own. Thrilled by the meal and eager to impress my then-boyfriend (now husband), I asked her for it. I made a few small tweaks to suit what I had in my kitchen and gave it a try. The result? A hit. So much so that a few years later, I brought a batch to a family party.
At that party, my sister-in-law had her first bite. She didn’t say much at the time, but apparently, something clicked. Inspired by the dish, she went home, searched for a recipe of her own (thank you, Google) and started making her version for her family.
Fast forward to just recently: we were visiting her house, and guess what she served? Swedish meatballs. They were fantastic. And somewhere between compliments and second helpings, she told me how that dish had become one of her favorites, sparked years ago by the meatballs I had brought to that party.
It’s amazing how a simple meal can ripple through lives, quietly leaving its mark. Food has this incredible way of bridging time, connecting us not just to one another, but to moments, emotions, and memories long past.
And what struck me the most? That something as ordinary as a meatball could hold so much meaning: nostalgia, connection, love. What began as a vacation lunch with my mom, aunt, and sister lives on, now part of another family’s favorites list.
That’s the magic of a good recipe: it’s never just food. It’s a story, a memory, a little piece of love passed from one plate to the next.
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My family recently went on a road trip to a lake cabin in the northern part of the state for a fishing getaway. Anyone who’s traveled with a five year old boy and a 1.5 year old girl knows the unique blend of excitement and chaos that comes with such an undertaking. Our teal 1997 Ford F-150 was packed to the brim with bikes, a bike trailer, snacks, and an impressive array of Tinker Toys to entertain our toddler.
The drive was an odyssey. Our toddler, never a fan of the car seat, took a mercifully short nap before waking up wriggling and fussing with all the determination of a 1.5-year-old. Our F-150 has a cassette player, and my husband had recently acquired a collection of 1980s rock mixtapes: Guns N’ Roses, Bon Jovi, and Candlebox are among the bands featured on the tapes. As soon as our toddler woke, my husband tried to placate her by playing his favorite mixtape. This only resulted in a competition between her and Bon Jovi to see who could be loudest in the truck.
Meanwhile, our five-year-old son, whose curiosity knows no bounds, peppered us with questions: “How did Candlebox get its name?” “How do volcanoes work?” “Who decides where the roads go?” My husband and I took turns answering, sometimes explaining things to the best of our ability, sometimes consulting our phones, and sometimes just admitting we didn’t know.
By the time we finally pulled into the gravel driveway of the cabin, supposedly a 4.5-hour drive on the map, but in reality just over six hours, we felt as though we’d completed a marathon. The collective 2.5 hours of crying from the back seat had left us frazzled, but as we unpacked and cracked open a cold beer on the porch, the stress of the drive began to melt away.
The cabin itself was a dream: spacious enough, rustic yet comfortable, and perched right on the edge of a sparkling lake. Our friends, the couple who had invited us, greeted us with warm hospitality and laughter. The next few days were a blur of simple joys. Mornings were spent fishing. Sometimes, it felt like the fish were practically leaping into our boat, much to the kids’ delight. Cleaning the fish became an undertaking that also attracted the kids’ attention. Afternoons brought leisurely walks, games of Uno, and stories shared over sparkling water and homemade margaritas. My son made new friends and played with them on the playground and the beach.
The fish seemed to leap into the boat, these perch were caught during one excursion
One afternoon, I brought the others on an adventure to a hidden waterfall deep in the woods. The sound of rushing water and the cool mist on my face felt like a secret reward for those willing to walk and explore.
Beautiful waterfall found after a 3/4-mile hike along a railroad bed trail
Back at the cabin, our hosts, avid foodies, introduced us to an array of specialty cheeses, and together we crafted homemade pizzas, each person adding their favorite toppings. We contributed our own homemade bread and fresh garden salad, which met with enthusiastic approval. One lunch, we had their specialty fish fry, complete with the best onion rings I’ve ever eaten. Evenings were filled with laughter, good food, and the kind of conversations that only happen when you’re far from the distractions of daily life.
As our friends wisely observed, “Three days together is perfect. Any longer, and we’d start to drive each other crazy.” By the third morning, my family was ready to return to our routines and check on our garden and animals back home.
The drive home started off much smoother. There’s something about the return leg of a trip that always feels faster. Perhaps this is because the route is familiar and the promise of home is on the horizon. Our son’s curiosity was undiminished, and we did our best to answer his questions about highway rules and road signs, grateful for the distraction. Our toddler napped again but woke up grumpy and restless. This time, her big brother did his best to entertain her, singing silly songs and passing a ball back and forth while I helped my husband navigate.
We made it to our planned halfway stop for lunch, gas, and bathroom breaks, feeling triumphant. But not long after we hit the road again, we noticed something odd. The truck began to shake: subtly at first, but soon with increasing intensity. At first, we tried to ignore it, distracted by a passing train and the donuts I’d picked up at the gas station. But as the shaking worsened, concern grew.
About an hour from home, we finally pulled over to investigate. Sure enough, one of the tires had developed a bulge: a ticking time bomb if we had continued at highway speeds. We found a nearby equipment yard with a large gravel lot and pulled in, grateful not to be stranded on the shoulder of a busy highway.
My husband sprang into action. He crawled under the truck to free the spare tire, which, to our dismay, was flat. Undeterred, he grabbed our trusty air compressor and plugged it into the cigarette lighter, inflating the spare while our son watched with wide eyes. Next, he retrieved the jack and tire iron from under the seat and began loosening the lug nuts. The stubborn tire refused to budge, so he pulled out a sledgehammer from the cross bed truck toolbox: a tool we’d always joked was “just in case.” After one solid whack, the tire finally relented.
Once the 12-volt air compressor had fully inflated the tire, it was fitted and secured in place. We packed up our tools and climbed back into the truck, feeling a little more like a team of adventurers than a family on a road trip. I complimented my husband for handling the hiccup with finesse.
The rest of the drive was uneventful, and as we pulled into our driveway, we were greeted by the familiar sights and sounds of home. Our garden had flourished in our absence, my mushrooms had begun to fruit again, and our animals were eager for attention. As we settled back into our daily routines, I found myself replaying moments from our journey: both the laughter and the chaos, the peaceful mornings on the lake, the delicious shared meals, and the seemingly effortless tire change on the roadside. It struck me that these are the stories that become family legend, the ones our children will recount with wide-eyed wonder years from now. In the end, it wasn’t the perfect itinerary or the smooth ride that made our trip memorable, but the shared challenges, the teamwork, and the joy we found in simply being together and with friends. Our road trip reminded me that adventure can be found in the most unexpected places, and that sometimes, a little trial is exactly what you need to bring a family closer together.
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Growing up on a dairy farm in Wisconsin, my days were shaped by the rhythm of the cows and the turning of the seasons. Each morning began before sunrise, the air crisp with the scent of damp earth as my family and I made our way to the barn. The gentle lowing of the cows was our alarm clock, their needs dictating every hour. Summers meant long days baling hay and tending fields; winters brought the challenge of breaking ice in water troughs and cleaning icy yards. Even now, years after leaving the farm, that heritage remains woven into who I am. The values of hard work, responsibility, and respect for the land and animals continue to guide me, especially as June Dairy Month arrives each year.
June Dairy Month always brings a sense of pride and community across Wisconsin. As families gather for breakfasts on the farm and other celebrations, I’m reminded of the camaraderie that comes from being part of such a vital tradition. It’s a time to reflect on my roots, appreciate the dedication of today’s dairy farmers, and feel connected to the land and lifestyle that shaped my upbringing.
As a child, I didn’t fully grasp the significance of June Dairy Month. I simply felt the special energy it brought: early mornings in the barn, the mingled scents of fresh hay and silage, the gentle clatter of milk pails, and the creamy taste of fresh milk. My parents stressed that cows don’t wait, and chores don’t take vacations. I learned this during many summer afternoons as I missed parties and other gatherings to clean the cow yard. The cows needed tending, indifferent to my disappointment and frustration. In those moments, responsibility became more than a lesson, but a way of life.
Looking back, I see how my family’s story is part of a much larger one. Wisconsin’s identity as “America’s Dairyland” began with a dramatic transformation in the late-19th century, when wheat fields gave way to pastures and dairy barns. Innovations like the refrigerated rail car and the Babcock butterfat tester, along with the support of the University of Wisconsin, helped turn the state into a national leader in milk and cheese production. June Dairy Month, which began in 1937, celebrates the contributions of dairy farmers to our nutrition, agriculture, and economy.
What stands out most from those years is the sense of community. Our work mattered, not just to us, but to neighbors and friends who relied on us for fresh dairy, and to the local businesses that depended financially on our success. June Dairy Month specifically meant hearty breakfasts on the farm, farm tours, and the joy of sharing what we produced. These traditions instilled in me a deep appreciation for collaboration and generosity.
Though I no longer live on a dairy farm, those values guide how I raise my own family. We keep a small garden and some poultry, and I make sure my kids know where their food is sourced. Every June, we attend the local Breakfast on the Farm, reconnecting with my roots and supporting our neighbors. We make homemade ice cream and talk about the farmers who make it possible. These experiences help my family feel connected not only to our food, but to the people who produce it.
Today’s dairy farmers face unprecedented challenges: rising costs, unpredictable weather, ever-evolving pests and diseases, emotional strain, and the pressures of a global market, among many other worries. The long hours and physical demands deter many from continuing the legacy. And yet, every day, farmers rise before dawn, meeting each obstacle with grit and creativity. Their perseverance sustains not only their families, but our communities and traditions. Recently, I attended a June Dairy Breakfast with my parents and children. The aroma of fresh pancakes mingled nicely with the scent of blooming lilacs, and my kids’ eyes lit up at the sights and sounds. Watching my kids and my parents interacting together on the farm, I felt the invisible threads of community and legacy binding us together, a living tapestry woven from shared labor and respect. The future of farming depends on all of us: supporting local farms, honoring the land, and teaching the next generation about where food is sourced. In every glass of milk, every slice of cheese, and every community breakfast, the story of perseverance and pride continues. It’s up to us to ensure this heritage thrives for generations to come.
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It’s a bright morning, the kind of day that feels full of promise and potential. My husband Mitchel and I are sitting in the living room with our two children, a toddler girl named Olivia and a 5-year-old boy named Andrew. Sunlight casts a warm glow over the carpet where toys, books, and a blanket fort are staged. The television is broadcasting Saturday morning cartoons, and we discuss our dreams from the night before. The gurgling of the coffeepot can be heard from the kitchen and the smell of coffee wafts into the room. The day stretches ahead invitingly with no work or school obligations pressing, a perfect opportunity for family bonding and completing homestead tasks. The pace is unhurried and the mood is light as the cartoons end and I shepherd my family into the kitchen to prepare breakfast.
Weekend breakfasts are a big deal in our household, and I pride myself in making a meal you could order in a greasy spoon diner. I open the refrigerator to discover leftover boiled potatoes, fresh eggs, and the pound of ground pork that defrosted from last night. Based on the contents of the refrigerator, I decide that we will prepare hashbrowns, eggs, and sausage. I have two sous chefs and an assistant who will help me prepare the food.
I locate the box grater and ask Andrew to help grate potatoes. He excitedly pushes a chair over to the counter where the potatoes, grater, and cutting board are staged. As he begins to grate potatoes, I hear Olivia screeching in protest as she toddles over to the chair, climbs up, and uses all her strength to push Andrew off the chair. Andrew grunts in frustration as he struggles to maintain his position, gripping both hands on the counter. Sensing a conflict, I push a second chair over to the counter and place Olivia there. Olivia then contents herself with eating cold potatoes while Andrew continues his task.
I proceed to my next job, preparing the seasoning for the pork sausage. I slide past my son and daughter to gain access to the spice cabinet. After spinning the lazy Susan a couple of times, I extract brown sugar, sage, paprika, salt, and pepper, then mix these spices in the proper ratio before adding the ground pork. I squeeze the pork/spice mixture, trying to ignore the discomfort from cold exposure. After the sausage is properly mixed, I divide it into 4 uneven balls: a small one for Olivia, a medium one for Andrew, a large one for me, and an extra-large one for Mitchel. Mitchel then stages two plates and two pieces of saran wrap, positioning the two plastic pieces between the plates. He places the pork balls one by one between the two plastic pieces, using his weight to flatten the balls into sausage patties.
While Mitchel is preparing the sausage patties, the cast iron skillet is preheating. As the patties are formed, I place them into the skillet and hear the characteristic sizzle. The kitchen begins to fill with the smell of rendering fat and toasting spices, blending well with the nutty coffee undertones. After the sausage bottoms are properly browned, they release easily from the pan as I flip them.
By this time, Andrew has grated most of the potatoes, and I place them into a bowl. I also add dehydrated onion, celery, garlic, and green pepper, salt, and black pepper. The sausage patties are removed from the pan and placed on a plate. The rendered sausage fat is used to flavor and brown the grated potatoes. In this way, nothing is wasted.
As the hash browns cook in the pan, I remove the eggs from the refrigerator. I crack the eggs, and Olivia insists on crushing the eggs to release the yolk and white. Some eggshells inevitably find their way into the clear and marigold-colored mixture, but I do not mind expending extra effort to extract them. I add a splash of milk, a few shakes of salt, and freshly cracked pepper. I then pass the scrambling fork to Olivia. She beams with pride as she blends the ingredients. I am close by with a rag to wipe up spills.
The smell of browned potatoes intermingles with the pork sausage, making my mouth water. I flip the potatoes, remove a stainless-steel pan from my kitchen drawer, place it on the stove, and turn the dial to high heat. The stove clicks to life, and blue flames emanate from the burner. I point out the hot stove, then show Olivia and Andrew how a stainless-steel pan can be made non-stick by heating the pan hot enough for the water to dance rather than instantly evaporate.
Once the pan is ready, I add oil, then ask Andrew to add the scrambled egg mixture. Steam rises from the pan as the eggs rapidly cook. I trust Andrew to stir the eggs until they are mostly cooked while remaining close by in case I am needed. When the eggs are ready, they slide effortlessly from the pan onto a plate. I remove the hashbrown skillet from the stove and place it in the middle of the table.
I thank my family for their help with preparing the meal. Olivia has already climbed onto her dining chair booster seat in anticipation. While I finish prepping, Mitchel places appropriate amounts of eggs, hashbrowns, and sausage on her plate, cuts the food, and allows her to eat. She squeals in approval as she dives into the sausage, then asks for a cup of milk. Andrew also starts with the sausage, then the eggs, then the hashbrowns.
Mitchel and I discuss our plans for the day as we savor our meal and our time together. Andrew shares interesting facts about his newest fascination, the Titanic. The eggs are creamy and rich with a velvety texture. The pork imparts an earthy, well-rounded taste that pairs well with the crispy exterior and juicy interior. The hashbrowns offer a pleasant balance of saltiness and a satisfying crunch. The trio together makes for an excellent meal, and a great way for me to bond with my family.
After breakfast, I collect the dishes to wash. Olivia and Andrew push chairs to the sink and play in the water while I wash the dishes. As I dip my hands in the warm soapy water, I feel a deep sense of pride in their burgeoning skills. Each small success, whether it’s a perfectly cracked egg or a well-seasoned hashbrown, sparks a gleam of confidence that I know will serve them far beyond the kitchen.
The warmth of these moments lingers long after the plates are cleared and the dishes are washed. We share stories, swap jokes, and sometimes, simply enjoy the quiet comfort of working side by side. These are the moments when our bond grows stronger, forged in the gentle rhythm of morning routines and the shared satisfaction of a meal made together. I treasure these simple rituals, knowing they nourish more than just our bodies. They plant seeds of independence, resilience, and togetherness in my children and our family. Years from now, I hope they will remember not just the taste of homemade sausage, but the feeling of belonging, capability, and love that filled our kitchen these mornings. These memories, built one breakfast at a time, are the true sustenance of our family.
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Practical Homesteading 