Hey friends, quick update from the homestead—I’m taking a short break from blogging to focus on family right now. Life with kids, maple syruping season in full swing, and all the usual chaos needs my full attention. I’d rather share quality stories and insights when I’m back, so I’ll be here soon.
Thanks for understanding!
Hey friends—three weeks into sugaring season and we’ve already pulled 5 gallons of homemade maple syrup from about 200 gallons of sap boiled down slow over endless oak, ash, and maple fires.
We’re smack in the middle of the season, with more sap flowing and wood to burn. 5 gallons now, 10-15 more expected. $18/quart jars. Some of this golden 66° Brix goodness is headed for pancake-fueled weekends, some for gifting to neighbors, and some we’ll sell to the surrounding community. Comment below (or DM) if local and interested (SE Wisconsin)!
Our 10-year tubing setup is still humming—healthy maples dripping steadily into jugs thanks to these perfect freeze/thaw cycles we’ve been getting. My husband and I take turns tending the evaporator around the clock. Meanwhile, our 6-year-old chops firewood like a little lumberjack (he’s getting scary good with that axe). And our 2-year-old daughter is absorbing the entire process.
That ~40:1 sap-to-syrup ratio means we’ve gone through a mountain of wood already. The air stays thick with that woodsmoke-sweet steam that chases away every bit of March chill—honestly, it’s my favorite part.
These firelit nights are pure magic. We watch the flames shifting from orange to fiery red as they devour log after log. That primal mix of crackling wood and caramelizing sap beats anything from a store bottle by a mile.
And when we filter and finish the syrup in the house, our entire house smells like a diner. I’ve commented about this during virtual meetings to my colleagues, who always get a chuckle, then ask me more about our syruping setup.
We’re hoping to finish strong with another 5-10 gallons total (fingers crossed the weather holds). Soon it’ll be time to filter everything through cheesecloth, bottle it up pretty, and label jars for neighbors, future sales, and of course our own pancake feasts. Can’t wait to taste test the first batch with that homemade rye bread from our recent Reuben quest.
Maple season = sauerkraut’s woodsmoke cousin—clear sap to liquid gold through fire, time, one pot at a time.
Any of you making syrup this season? What’s your boil ratio been like? Favorite tree to tap? Tell me everything below—I love swapping sugaring stories!
Practical Homesteading: growing food, raising kids, building community.
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My middle name is Marjorie, sharing a birthday with The Simpsons premiere (handy icebreaker, though nobody calls me Marge).
Marjorie honors my late grandmother. We lived 30 miles apart, seeing her at Christmas where I’d play their electric piano while she and her jovial second husband laughed together.
She brought knick-knacks from trips for us six granddaughters—a Florida seashell globe stands out. At their Wisconsin cabin, we shared dive-bar battered mushrooms before her health declined.
The name carries her quiet presence through those visits and our last October Christmas photo, still framed in my hall.
Featured Photo by Annie Spratt on Unsplash
What’s YOUR middle name story? Share below!
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A cooking disaster in my freshman dorm set me up for homesteading success I never expected. One apparent failure became the foundation for kitchen confidence.
My first “from-scratch” pizza took three times longer than delivery. The crust was a brick, sauce too acidic, toppings slid everywhere. My future husband politely choked it down. Mortifying.
That flop taught me two things: failure stings less when shared, and every kitchen mistake teaches something concrete. I started measuring flour properly, tasting as I went. Zucchini bread followed (once ruined by tablespoons of salt instead of teaspoons—inedible).
Fast forward to our rural homestead. Now I confidently make:
A couple of weeks ago, I pulled winter carrots (candy-sweet from the freeze) for pot roast. No one would guess this calm came from serving weaponized pizza.
Cooking disasters built my homesteading confidence through kitchen iteration:
Apparent failure = practice reps for real skills. That freshman flop was my first composting lesson: even burnt crust feeds future growth.
What’s a failure that set YOU up for success? Share below!
If this pizza-to-homestead arc resonates, like + share so other makers see failure’s power!
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Do you believe in fate/destiny?
No, I really don’t believe in fate or destiny. I don’t think anyone’s life is completely prewritten. Our paths are shaped by the choices we make, the help we accept, and the way we respond when things get messy. Still, some circumstances are stronger than our willpower alone, and none of us can do it without support — from faith, family, or good friends who remind us we’re not alone.
## A Family Move That Tested Our Strength
A few years ago, my husband and I decided we wanted to live closer to our families, who were about two hours away. We were rooted on an 18-acre homestead — beautiful but not easy to leave behind. I was pregnant at the time and caring for our three-year-old, running on fumes while my husband carried most of the physical load.
He managed the heavy lifting and trips back and forth, while I coordinated with the real estate agent, cleaned, packed, transferred doctors, and researched schools. It was exhausting work, physically and mentally. Change doesn’t always feel like courage — sometimes, it’s just stubbornness and persistence one long day after another.
## Lessons in Change and Support
Through countless trips, family help, and many take‑out dinners, we finally made the move. Looking back, that season taught me how much support truly matters when facing big life changes. We can often change more than we think — and when we can’t, we can still find ways to live fully in the situation we’re in.
That perspective has shaped how I understand personal growth and mindset. The biggest shifts often happen quietly — in how we think, what we choose to let go of, and how we lean on the people who love us. Growth doesn’t always look graceful; sometimes it’s just persistence disguised as survival.
## Finding Peace Through the Serenity Prayer
When I reach the limits of what I can control, I take comfort in the serenity prayer. It reminds me to seek the courage to change what I can, the grace to accept what I can’t, and the wisdom to know the difference.
Maybe that’s not destiny at all — maybe it’s the steady, imperfect work of growing where we’re planted and finding grace along the way.
Feature Photo by Alicia Christin Gerald on Unsplash
How do you think about fate versus choice in your own life? Have you ever made a big move or change like this?
I’d love to hear your story in the comments—what helped you get through a season of big transition?
If this story resonated with you, please tap the like button, leave a comment, or share it with a friend who’s facing a big life change. Your support helps this little corner of the internet grow.
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The pink line said everything I couldn’t. My husband and I were expecting our first child.
I couldn’t say I was surprised—we had been trying for a couple of months. But I was a little sad to see an era end. For the first time, I had true freedom: spontaneous road trips with friends, solo coffee dates that stretched into afternoons, disposable income that let me buy plane tickets without a second thought. We’d just bought our first homestead after driving to Alaska for our honeymoon. Life felt wide open and full of possibility.
I wasn’t sad he was coming—I was nervous about losing that independence and learning to be a mother, but equally excited to meet him, like a blind date with the love of my life. Saying goodbye to that version of me was hard.
Holding that positive test, I felt both gratitude for this wanted gift and quiet grief for what was changing. No one prepares you for motherhood’s bittersweet beginning, when you’re thrilled about the baby but apprehensive about who you’ll become.
Throughout pregnancy, my love for him grew right alongside very real nerves. I cherished feeling his first flutters—those tiny “butterflies” that made him real—and hearing the rapid whoosh-whoosh of his heartbeat at every doctor’s appointment. I talked to him constantly through my belly, telling him about the adventures we’d have someday together. Choosing his name felt perfect, like we already knew him. But I also wondered if I’d be a good mom, grieved the end of solo adventures, and felt my independence quietly slipping away as my body changed.
Labor brought everything into sharp focus. When my water broke and my body started shaking, it wasn’t just the contractions—it was the weight of knowing there was no going back. Breastfeeding tested me too. Anxiety made it harder than it “should” have been. I worried constantly if he was getting enough, if I was already failing at the one thing my body was made to do.
Slowly, the cloud of doubt lifted—not dramatically, but through ordinary moments that felt sacred. His first sleepy smile lit something up in me, whether it was gas or not. His tiny hand gripped my finger with surprising strength. His body finally relaxed into mine when he fell asleep on my chest. That pure belly giggle when I tickled his neck cut straight through all my self-doubt.
I watched him skip crawling altogether and go straight to walking with those wobbly, determined steps. He explored the world with toddler intensity—picking up rocks, chasing bubbles, staring at ants on the sidewalk like they held all life’s secrets. His questions grew more complex over time, moving from “What’s that?” to “How does it work?” and “Why?” That curiosity pulled me back into wonder I didn’t know I’d lost.
Those belly conversations came back to me often—they became reality, just more locally than my pre-baby dreams. Instead of cross-country drives, we’ve explored Lake Michigan beaches together, giggling as waves lap our toes. We’ve visited the zoo, marveling at animals that fascinate him more than any faraway landmark could. Now at 6, with his 2-year-old sister tagging along, we’ve spent countless hours at parks, pushing swings and hunting for the perfect climbing tree. The adventures came true—they’re just the ones that fit our family life together.
Life before kids offered a particular kind of freedom. Now my money goes to toddler shoes he outgrows in three months and snacks that disappear in two minutes. Late nights with faraway friends have been replaced by early mornings and sticky hands around my neck.
But I’ve gained something irreplaceable: a front-row seat to a whole human becoming himself. The “Mama?” calls from the next room. The love that shows up in the ordinary and the hard.
He was deeply wanted from that very first pink line. I was nervous about motherhood, yes. But I was thrilled to meet him. The trade-off hurt, but loving him made every goodbye worth it.
Feature Photo by Michael Anfang on Unsplash
Moms: What was hardest to say goodbye to before kids? Travel? Independence? Late nights out? Share below!
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Over the next six months, our biggest homesteading challenge will be learning how to nurture new life on our homestead. Specifically, helping two first-time pig moms safely deliver and raise their piglets around Mother’s Day.
My husband and I have raised pigs on our homestead for two years, mostly for meat. Last year we ended up with two young gilts originally intended for processing. But as we watched their personalities emerge and realized we had enough pigs for last year’s orders, we made a different choice.
These two became our first step into pig breeding territory, which meant learning winter pig care for full-size gilts. We’ve learned cold weather management, water access, mud containment, and the general chaos of long-term livestock keeping.
Pig breeding doesn’t come with modern dating apps. Artificial insemination is possible but tricky for homesteaders like us without the required training and equipment. So we borrowed a boar from family for two weeks instead. The boar settled immediately, smacking his lips (apparently a pig mating technique we’ve never heard of before).
The eligible bachelorettes couldn’t get enough of him. They went from wary strangers, sniffing and posturing through social hierarchy, to “getting lucky” overnight. It was equal parts farm practicality and genuine wonder about new life coming to our land.
Pig gestation follows the classic 3 months, 3 weeks, 3 days timeline. If our calculations hold, Gilt #1 farrows around Mother’s Day 2026, with Gilt #2 following about a week later. It’s perfect timing for our first experience with pig birth coinciding with a holiday celebrating mothers.
First-time farrowing intimidates me most. New sows face surging hormones, labor pain, and instincts they don’t yet understand. They sometimes pace frantically or accidentally step on newborns while nesting.
My grandfather, a lifelong pig man, stayed up all night in farrowing barns watching over nervous moms. He would even give them small amounts of whiskey to mellow them out—an old-school remedy I’m definitely not trying.
We’re preparing by seeking advice from local old timers with experience. We’re also acquiring and staging farrowing crates and deep straw bedding for their comfort.
Success to us means 8-12 healthy piglets per litter with thriving moms and minimal intervention.
Homestead piglets represent more than cute photos—they’re future meat pigs, potential breeders, or weaned piglets for local sale. But truly, watching new life stumble into the world with tiny hooves, squeaky snouts, and wobbly legs racing their mama captures pure homestead magic worth every sleepless night.
What’s your next big homesteading challenge? Pig farrowing, goat kidding, chick hatching? Share below—someone needs your wisdom.
If you’re facing pig farrowing, goat kidding, or any livestock birth for the first time, LIKE + SHARE this with your homestead crew!
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I honestly can’t think of much that really bores me. Honestly, it’s not because my life is wildly exciting, but because I’ve learned to stay curious. I try to see the beauty or thought behind most things and find them interesting in some fashion.
If I’m in a conversation that might seem dull on the surface, I pay attention to the other person’s body language. Do their eyes light up when they mention one topic but dull when they shift to another? Do their shoulders tighten when they talk about work, even if their words sound cheerful? It becomes less about the subject itself and more about the story their body is telling alongside their voice.
Even something like watching television is layered for me. I love noticing the sets and imagining the work that went into them. Someone spent time choosing the wallpaper, the way a bookshelf is styled, the mug a character always uses. None of these choices are accidental. Someone cared enough to place every object, choose every color, and make the scene feel lived in. When I think of it that way, I’m not just consuming content; I’m admiring a moving piece of art.
That same habit of looking deeper has carried into how I approach screen-free parenting, especially in the slow or “boring” moments. When on long car rides with my kids, I largely refuse to rely on screens. I instead point out the “boring” things outside and turn them into something to notice. Some examples are bridges, city water towers, transmission lines, and the way the landscape changes from town to town. When long car rides were more frequent with my two-year-old son, I would keep ordinary containers up front. They could be old spice jars, boxes, and lids. I’d hand them back so he could stack, sort, and explore. Now that he’s six, he loves looking out the window and telling his now two-year-old sister about water towers and power lines. He’s now doing my work for me, passing on this little habit of paying attention. Those drives used to feel endless; now they feel like slow, moving classrooms and one of my favorite forms of simple, screen-free entertainment for kids on long drives.
If you’re stuck in traffic or in a waiting room, you might try this too. Turn the “background” into something worth noticing instead of reaching for a screen.
I even find myself thinking about the engineering and design in everyday objects, like a door handle. Someone had to decide how it should feel in your hand, how much pressure it should take to turn, how it would work for small fingers or tired ones. There’s a whole quiet layer of thought behind things we touch without ever really seeing.
So when I ask myself what bores me, I still come up blank. Life is full of tiny details, hidden stories, and quiet bits of creativity. A mindset of everyday curiosity and mindful attention keeps even the most ordinary moments—waiting rooms, car rides, reruns on TV—from feeling dull. When I stay curious, I honestly still can’t think of much that really bores me.
Feature Photo by Aaron Munoz on Unsplash
How do you stay curious in the “boring” moments? I’d love to hear your tips!
If you know another parent who’s trying to cut down on screens or feel less bored in the everyday, please share this post with them or save it for your next road trip.
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My favorite people to spend time with are of course my husband and two children. But I also love to be around others who are willing to learn, grow, and have fun.
You know how some people wear their patriotism loudly? I’m the opposite—patriotic in the quiet, everyday way. For me, being patriotic isn’t about flags or fireworks. It’s gratitude for the huge risks my family took to get here, and trying to live responsibly because of it.
My folks came from Germany in the mid-1800s—right when Europe was in chaos. Monarchies were falling, borders were shifting, everything was consolidating. They left everything familiar—villages, language, safety nets—for a dangerous ocean crossing.
I picture them clutching kids and trunks on crowded docks, betting everything on freedom and opportunity they couldn’t even see yet. Not just for them—for all the generations that would come after. That’s the kind of courage that humbles me every time.
So true patriotism to me means stewardship. Living like their gamble was worth it. That looks like:
It’s not abstract for me. Quiet patriotism shows up when I:
My ancestors bet their future on this country. My thank-you is living intentionally—rooted in land, connected to family, aware of history. They crossed oceans so I could have this life. The least I can do is make it count.
What’s YOUR quiet patriotism look like? Drop it below! ❤️ Like if ancestors’ stories resonate. 📲 Share with family who gets this.
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