simple living – Practical Homesteading

Keeping Time With the Land: How Seasonal Living Can Help You Slow Down

What the seasons can teach us about slowing down, finding balance, and belonging
A version of this essay appears in the January 8, 2026 edition of the Dodge County Pionier.

Ask most people how they measure time today, and the answers sound familiar: alarms, deadlines, color‑coded calendars, the endless scroll of days on a glowing screen. Phone notifications cut across dinner, school schedules slice afternoons into drop‑offs and pickups, and the next bill due date is never far from mind.

Where I live, time follows a different rhythm—guided not by screens but by the soil itself.

My family keeps time by the signals nature gives: sap rising in March, turtles crossing the road in May, fireflies at dusk in June, corn drying into gold by October. A cold north wind can say “November” more clearly than any app. These cycles remind us that time isn’t a race toward exhaustion; it’s a loop—a pattern of effort, rest, and return.

In a world obsessed with productivity, the land offers a quiet lesson: slowing down isn’t falling behind. It’s catching up to what matters.

Winter: the radical act of rest

When the holidays end and snow hushes the fields, stillness takes hold. The world outside the window turns soft and muted, as if someone turned down the volume. Days stretch long. Nights invite reading, conversation, and quiet.

In modern life, that slowness often gets labeled “unproductive.” Inbox counters climb even as the sun sets before dinner. But in the rural calendar, winter is preparation—the season the earth itself uses to heal. Under the frozen top layer, roots are resting, waiting for their cue.

Inside, a different kind of work takes over: soup on the stove, a deck of cards on the table, a cat snoring near the heat register. There’s no badge for this kind of work, but the house feels fuller for it.

Winter offers permission to pause. Even without a farm or a woodstove, anyone can claim a bit of that wisdom: choose a few evenings when nothing is scheduled, let the phone stay in another room, and let the quiet do its work.

Spring: a rehearsal for renewal

Spring announces itself quietly at first—a drip of meltwater from the eaves, the smell of mud, the first bird that sings before sunrise. One morning the snow looks tired; the next, you notice a thin green line where the lawn meets the sidewalk.

We tap trees and plant seeds, acts that serve no instant gratification. The sap runs clear and cold, one slow drop after another into plastic jugs. Seed trays sit under lights, all dirt and hope, for weeks before anything green appears. Yet when syrup warms pancakes or sprouts unfurl in a window box, you can taste reward drawn from patience.

Spring teaches urgency without panic. Ramps, asparagus, morels, and rhubarb arrive in a rush, then slip away as if they were never there. The season reminds us that beginnings are not one-time events but recurring invitations. The world doesn’t ask, “Did you start perfectly?” It asks, “Are you willing to start again?”

You don’t need a sugar bush or a greenhouse to feel this. A single pot of herbs on a balcony, or a commitment to walk the same city block once a week and notice what’s blooming, can turn spring into a ritual rather than a blur.

And after that first rush of green, the land hardly pauses—by July, it’s in full voice.

Summer: where work and joy meet

By midsummer, everything hums. In the afternoon heat, insects buzz like a low electric current in the fields. Lawnmowers start and stop up and down the street. Windows are open, and someone, somewhere, is grilling.

Gardens overflow. Tomatoes split if you don’t pick them in time. Zucchini multiplies on the counter and quietly appears on neighbors’ doorsteps. Kids shriek through sprinklers, leaving wet footprints on hot pavement. Even the air smells different: cut grass, sunscreen, diesel from a tractor on a distant road.

Like the growing season, our best days often mix effort with enjoyment. Summer’s lesson is simple: work and joy are not enemies. They often belong in the same hour. There is satisfaction in going to bed with dirt under your fingernails and the memory of a late sunset still bright in your mind.

The reward for effort can be as close as a ripe berry, a shared picnic in a city park, or a tired, happy body at the end of a long, light-filled day.

Autumn: gratitude and gathering

Autumn softens the light and sharpens the air. Mornings carry that first hint of frost, and you can see your breath if you step outside before the sun gets serious. Leaves turn from green to gold and red, then crunch underfoot in the driveway.

The season’s abundance—pumpkins on porches, apples piled in crates, shelves lined with jars and loaves—reminds us how much depends on cooperation: between people, earth, and time. No one person makes a harvest alone. There are seed savers, farm workers, truck drivers, grocers, and cooks all woven into the meal.

Gratitude, in this season, isn’t just a word reserved for a single holiday. It’s the habit of looking at an ordinary table—soup, bread, a piece of fruit—and seeing the many hands and seasons that brought it there.

Even in an apartment, autumn can become a practice of gathering: inviting friends over for a simple pot of chili, walking through a park under changing trees, or taking five extra minutes to watch the early dark settle in instead of rushing past it.

What circles can teach a linear world

When winter returns, it’s easy to see it as a setback: dark, cold, the end of something. But the more closely the seasons are watched, the clearer it becomes that time does not move in a straight line. It hums in a circle.

Each season brings another chance to begin again—not by doing more, but by noticing more. The calendar on the wall may march from one square to the next, but the world outside repeats its old, trustworthy patterns: thaw, bloom, heat, harvest, rest.

Wherever you live—city or countryside—you can keep time with the land in your own way. Let January be a little slower. Let spring mean at least one meal built around what is fresh where you are. Let summer include a night spent outdoors until it’s fully dark. Let autumn carry a moment of thanks, even if it’s just whispered over a sink full of dishes.

The land has never hurried. It always arrives where it should. Maybe we can too, if we’re willing to step out of the race now and then and walk in circles for a while instead.

How could you bring a bit of seasonal balance into your daily routine? Please let me know below in the comments.

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What Could I Do Differently? Homesteading, Kids Chores, and Friend Connections

What could you do differently?

I catch myself asking this while scrubbing potatoes at the sink, weeding garden rows, or picking up blocks for the tenth time.

On our homestead, the work never stops. But lately, I’ve seen a few clear ways to shift — not for perfection, but for more peace, presence, and real connection with the people who matter most.

Slow My Yes. Guard My Rest.
Here’s one big change: I’d say yes more slowly. And treat rest like a non-negotiable chore.

Extra commitments sneak in easily — kid activities, one more property project, favors for friends. They’re good things. Until they blur our days into exhaustion.

Rest isn’t optional. It’s fuel.

What that looks like for us:
– One protected family evening weekly. No plans. No screens.
– A slower morning after big days, even if dishes wait.
– Sometimes my best “yes” is actually no — leaving margin for what refills us.

Pull the Kids Closer (Mess and All)
When I’m tired, my instinct is “just do it myself.” That’s changing.

We’ve asked our six-year-old to help clean and put clothes away. He sighs. Drags his feet through the laundry pile. Grumbles. But he does it. And when he does, my load lightens. We talk about his day while he folds socks and I straighten up the living room. We laugh when a shirt lands inside-out.

Kids helping isn’t efficient. It’s essential.

Those small chores build something bigger: his sense of belonging, our family rhythm, moments to actually connect instead of just managing the house around him.

Make Space for Neighbors
Right now, we’re looking for more neighbor friends — the kind who stop by with garden produce or help with a project. Lately, I’ve been carving out time for one friend, helping her keep up with a winter garden. We talk animals, plot cold frames, and hope for a game night soon under blankets with hot cocoa.

That’s the kind of margin I want more of. Not just for projects, but people. The garden beds matter. But so do late talks about goats versus chickens, shared labor on a neighbor’s shed, or laughter over cards with new friends nearby.

Real community doesn’t form on a schedule. It grows.

What I could do differently: protect one flexible afternoon weekly for whoever shows up — the neighbor with a question about crop rotation, or someone new walking up the drive. Our homestead thrives when the people around it do, too.

The Change That Stays
These shifts aren’t a checklist to conquer. They’re small turns toward what matters:

– Saying yes slower.
– Resting on purpose.
– Inviting kids into real chores like cleaning and clothes.
– Making room for neighbors, not just garden rows.

The weeds won’t stop growing. The laundry won’t vanish. But with these changes, our home could become what I picture most:

A place where garden beds,
kids folding tiny clothes,
and neighbors’ boots on the porch
all thrive side by side.

What’s one thing you could do differently this week? Share your thoughts in the comments!

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We’re Stronger Together: Homesteading, Family, and the Power of a Village

If you had a freeway billboard, what would it say?

“Real life — the good kind — isn’t a solo project. It’s meant to be shared.”

If I Had a Freeway Billboard, It Would Say:
“We’re Stronger Together.”
Simple. Short. True.

That phrase might only take a second to read, but it’s something I’ve come to believe deeply over time. Homesteading, parenting, and everyday life keep reminding me that none of us truly thrive in isolation. We can’t — and we’re not meant to.

The Myth of “Doing It All”
I’ve tried to “do it all” before. Maybe you have, too.

I remember one quiet afternoon watching our toddler play alone in the wide stretch of our backyard. Sunlight shone on his light blonde hair. Chickens were clucking somewhere behind him. The smell of wet grass lingered after the rain. My husband and I had been talking about having another child, but the thought brought a flood of questions. Could we manage it all — raising little ones, keeping the homestead going, working — without losing our minds or each other?

That moment planted a seed. I didn’t know it then, but it would change how we lived. Even though we were proud of our self-sufficiency, trying to do everything alone left us stretched thin and quietly disconnected.

Real life — the good kind — isn’t a solo project. It’s meant to be shared.

In the four years since that afternoon, so much has changed. We moved closer to family and, not long after, welcomed our daughter — another beautiful whirlwind of toddler energy. Now we have more of a village to help raise her. And in turn, we can show up for others.

That web of giving and receiving has made all the difference. It’s turned our days into something more sustainable, more joyful, and far more connected.

Why “Together” Matters
It’s easy to imagine strength as something proven alone. But real strength is interwoven — built through connection, trust, and shared effort.

It’s the kind that shows up when neighbors help fix our house, when friends drop off soup unasked, or when laughter spills out during chores that would otherwise feel endless.

On the homestead, togetherness looks like shared harvests and muddy boots side by side. The garden gets weeded faster when more than one person is pulling. The work lightens, and the smiles come easier.

That’s the kind of strength that fills the spaces where frustration or loneliness might otherwise take root.

And that same truth guides the way we’re raising our kids.

Building “Together” at Home
In our family, we talk a lot about contributing to the household — because this home’s success belongs to all of us.

Since I started giving our six-year-old a daily job, he’s made it clear he doesn’t always love it. He sighs, he drags his feet, and he grumbles his way through — but he does it.

And afterward, something shifts. My load feels lighter, our days run smoother, and I have more time to simply be with him — to laugh, to listen, to connect.

The lesson is simple but powerful: we build strength, resilience, and belonging not by doing everything ourselves, but by doing our part together.

What That Billboard Really Means
So if someone sped past my billboard and read the words “We’re stronger together,” I’d hope it would land right when they needed it most — in a moment of overwhelm, or when they’re trying to carry too much alone.

Because strength doesn’t have to mean solitude. Sometimes the bravest thing we can do is reach out a hand — or take one that’s being offered.

After all, the strongest gardens — like families — grow best when many hands tend them.

And that truth keeps my feet steady, season after season.

We’re stronger. Together.

What’s one way someone has shown up for you recently? Please share your stories in the comments.

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The Booyah Curling Club: Finding Community in Unexpected Places

If you started a sports team, what would the colors and mascot be?

Some people dream of owning a football franchise or a professional basketball team. Me? I’d rather build something smaller—something you can actually show up for without needing a corporate sponsor or a teleprompter.

Mainstream sports have their own kind of magic, sure, especially when you’re in the stadium. But on TV, the spectacle loses me. I like it when the cheers sound human, when the players still smile between plays, and when half the fans know each other by name.

So if I ever started a sports team, it’d be for a smaller, beautifully odd sport—something like curling. There’s something endearing about it: people sliding polished stones across ice while others sweep furiously in front of them, shouting like they’re casting spells. It’s strategy and silliness in perfect balance—a humble sport that celebrates precision, patience, and teamwork.

And, of course, every team needs a mascot. Mine would honor my own past. I’d call the team The Booyahs, after the hearty chicken-and-vegetable stew I first encountered while living in Green Bay.

To be clear, I’m not talking about the Green Bay Booyah baseball team that existed for a while—my inspiration comes from the local dish itself, a slow-cooked celebration of community. Booyah isn’t just soup; it’s a small-town event unto itself, cooked in huge pots at church picnics and county fundraisers, filling the air with the scent of onions, broth, and belonging.

The mascot? A cheerful, steaming soup pot named Brothy, wearing a wool scarf and holding a curling broom. It’s a little goofy, a little heartwarming—honestly, perfectly Midwestern.

The colors would come straight from the soup bowl: bright orange like carrots, deep green like cabbage, and warm golden yellow like the broth. Those are colors that feel alive and approachable—like warmth on a cold day.

What would make The Booyahs special isn’t the sport itself, but what it represents. It’s a reminder that community doesn’t have to be loud to matter. The best teams aren’t always the ones with the biggest stands or flashiest jerseys—they’re the ones that bring people together to laugh, cheer, and share stories over a hot bowl of something good.

Because in the end, whether it’s curling stones or life itself, we all just want the same thing—to belong somewhere that feels genuine, where joy bubbles slowly, shared and savored.
And if that happens to involve a pot of soup and a broom on ice? Even better.

If you could start your own team—sports or otherwise—what would it be called? What would your colors, mascot, or mission be? Share your creative ideas in the comments below! I’d love to see what you’d dream up.

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The Art of Ordinary Living: Finding Creativity in Writing, Cooking, and Parenting

How are you creative?

Creativity doesn’t always look like a canvas, a stage, or a masterpiece. Sometimes, it looks like a skillet full of potatoes, a bedtime routine that finally works, or a few quiet minutes spent putting messy life into words. For me, creativity lives in the everyday—in the effort, the resourcefulness, and the love poured into small things.

Writing Creativity
I’m creative through writing. I may not write fiction, but I write with color and heart. My words capture the hum of morning chores, the smell of bread rising on the counter, and the soft sounds of my family winding down after a long day.

Writing helps me slow down and hold onto fleeting moments before they slip away. My hope is that when someone reads what I write, they see their own life reflected back at them. I hope they begin to look for beauty in the ordinary. Writing, to me, is storykeeping more than storytelling—a way to honor the simple rhythm of living.

Cooking Creativity
That same creative spirit follows me into the kitchen. Few things bring more joy than opening the refrigerator with little motivation and turning almost nothing into something truly satisfying.

My trusty skillet, a few potatoes, and some onions have saved more dinners than I can count. The sound of onions sizzling in butter and the smell that fills the house remind me that creativity often blooms from constraint. It’s about seeing what you have and imagining what it could become.

Parenting Creativity
I’m also creative in my parenting. I didn’t want to raise my children exactly as I was raised, so I’ve learned to improvise and adapt through plenty of trial and error.

Take my two-year-old daughter and the great toothbrushing standoff. For months, we tried everything—games, choices, even silly songs—but it always ended the same: us brushing her teeth while she screamed in protest.

About a month ago, we took a new approach. We simply told her this was part of bedtime—non-negotiable, like pajamas and stories. To my surprise, she accepted it. Now she even reaches for the toothbrush herself.

My son wouldn’t have responded to that method at her age, but that’s the creative dance of parenting—learning each child’s rhythm, one routine at a time.

Reflection
Over time, I’ve realized that creativity isn’t limited to what we make—it’s how we live. It’s the spark that turns routine into ritual, leftovers into a warm meal, and frustration into understanding. It’s what keeps a home vibrant, a family connected, and a heart grateful. Every time I face life’s little challenges and find a gentler way through, I’m reminded of how much beauty lives in simply trying.

We are all, in one way or another, artists of ordinary life—crafting something meaningful out of the materials we’ve been given.

Now it’s your turn. How do you bring creativity into your everyday routines?

If this reflection resonated with you, share it with someone who finds beauty in everyday moments too. 💛

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#homesteadinglife #everydaycreativity #familyblogger #simpleliving #parentingtruths #mindfulliving #gratitudeinmotion #creativeparenting #findingjoyeveryday

Holiday Traditions That Root Us: Family, Food, and Connection on the Homestead

Every December, I feel the year take a deep, satisfied breath. The first frost settles on the garden beds and the house grows quiet under early sunsets.

The holidays don’t arrive in a rush of gifts or glitter. They come as a gentle exhale. It’s an invitation to pause, look back, and give thanks for all we’ve built together as a family.

The Joy of Holiday Cards

One of my favorite ways to mark the season is through the tradition of holiday cards. Each one feels like a small window into someone’s life. There’s a handwritten note, a new baby’s smile, a captured moment of love.

We hang the cards over our doorway. That way, each time we step outside, we pass under a colorful arch of friendship and memory. It’s a daily reminder that while we may live miles apart, the ties that bind us remain close and bright.

The Tree That Tells Our Story

Our Christmas tree may not be grand or freshly cut. It’s an old artificial one, gifted by a coworker more than a decade ago. The branches are slightly bent, and a few bulbs refuse to light. Yet when we pull it from the box each year, it feels like greeting an old friend.

Each ornament holds a fragment of our story. There are handmade trinkets from the kids, crocheted snowflakes from my mother-in-law, and treasures from years past. The tree stands as a quiet symbol of continuity and gratitude. It reminds me that beauty often lives in what endures.

Simple Joys and Shared Stories

Every season brings a moment to slow down and savor the familiar. I always find myself rewatching It’s a Wonderful Life.

George Bailey’s struggles and small joys remind me that even in life’s messiest seasons, there’s beauty in simply showing up. I carry that spirit into my workplace, too. Working remotely most of the year, my in-person time with coworkers feels extra special.

There’s an ease in sharing stories beyond the screen. We share laughter over drinks, conversations that meander like old friendships, and the reminder that connection doesn’t depend on proximity.

A Season for Sweetness

At home, the kitchen becomes the heart of the season. The air fills with the scent of butter, cinnamon, and sugar—the unmistakable signal that it’s cookie time.

My favorite tradition, though, is baking kranz kuchen. It’s a tender, yeasted bread folded with hickory nuts, brown sugar, cinnamon, and dates. The recipe has been passed down through generations. Every year we forage the hickory nuts ourselves.

There’s something sacred about that ritual. We gather food from the land, turn it into something fragrant and celebratory, and share it with those I love.

Gifts Made of Experience

Instead of focusing on material gifts, our family gives each other an experience every year.

A few winters ago, we wandered through the glowing quiet of Cave of the Mounds. Last year, our son’s eyes lit up at the Manitowoc Maritime Museum as he marveled at the USS Cobia.

This year, we’re heading to Oshkosh to see the light show, visit the EAA Museum, and end the day with dinner and laughter at the Mineshaft. These experiences spark curiosity and wonder. They remind me that time and attention are the greatest gifts we can give our children.

Gathered Around the Table

Christmas Eve dinner with my parents is the anchor of the season.

We gather around a table filled with food that tells our story. The main coarse is pork roast from pigs we raised and sauerkraut made from cabbage grown in my parents’ garden. It’s more than a meal. It’s a celebration of patience, hard work, and the quiet rhythm of the land that sustains us. Every bite tastes like gratitude made tangible.

The next day, we join my in-laws for a night of laughter, games, and gift exchanges that always end in joyful mayhem.

Once February arrives, the festivities begin again when my extended family gathers for our belated celebration. Some of my sisters can’t travel in December, but that second gathering has become its own cherished tradition. It’s a spark of warmth that keeps the season alive well into the new year.

The Heart of Tradition

Each of these rituals—whether we’re baking, sharing stories through holiday cards, or sitting around the table—reminds me that traditions aren’t about repetition.

They’re about remembering who we are. The holidays teach me to slow down, to honor what we’ve grown, and to see abundance in what’s already here.

When the lights fade and the tree comes down, I tuck the cards into a small box. Their words and faces carry the season’s glow into the months ahead.

And I’m left with the same quiet truth: home isn’t a place or a moment. It’s a feeling—built from love, gratitude, and the steady rhythm of returning to what matters most.

Join the Conversation

If these reflections resonate with you, I’d love to share more glimpses of slow, seasonal living from our little homestead.

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Let’s keep growing together, one season and one story at a time.

My Biggest Influences from Family, Homesteading, and Simple Living

Who are the biggest influences in your life?

Keywords
simple living inspiration, homesteading lifestyle, family-centered life, personal growth journey, rural living values, community and connection, self-sufficiency and family, gratitude and intention

Influence comes in many forms—some quiet and steady, others bold and life-changing. Lately, I’ve been reflecting on who’s helped shape my journey toward simple living, family-centered growth, and self-sufficiency.

Books That Shape My Thinking
Books have always been my greatest teachers. I can spend hours tucked into a good nonfiction guide—whether it’s about self-improvement, gardening, or preserving old homestead traditions. The works of Midwestern authors like Jerry Apps hold a special place in my heart. His book about rural school life reminded me of the values that built strong communities: honesty, grit, and compassion. Reading it inspired me to start writing again and to live more intentionally.

Another influential book is Ben Logan’s The Land Remembers. His stories of growing up in Wisconsin capture what I love most about rural living. He talks about connection to the land, rhythm of the seasons, and the quiet lessons found in hard work. These authors remind me that storytelling preserves the values and wisdom worth passing on.

Just as books have shaped how I think about simple living, the people around me continue to shape how I live it each day.

Community That Inspires Me
Social media has become a surprisingly powerful influence in my life. My Facebook followers bring so much joy, encouragement, and creativity. We swap garden tips, share family stories, and remind each other that we’re not alone in pursuing intentional living.

What’s even more special is how online connections can grow into real friendships. Just last week, a friend from high school reached out after reading one of my posts. We met for coffee and had a wonderful conversation. It’s one that bridged years and reminded me how connection can start anywhere, even with a simple post.
Platforms like YouTube have also become part of my daily rhythm.

Watching fellow homesteaders and lifestyle creators encourages me to keep learning new skills and to approach life’s routines with curiosity and gratitude.

Family That Grounds Me
At the heart of my life is family. My parents and in-laws are always ready to help. Sometimes, it’s lending a hand with a project. Other times, it’s offering wisdom when I need it most. My husband is my constant partner—steadfast, kind, and right beside me whether we’re tending the garden or tackling challenges together.

My children have become my best teachers. They remind me to slow down, play, and find joy in the small things. Through them, I’ve learned patience, creativity, and how to truly appreciate everyday blessings.

And my sisters hold a special place in my heart. We share humor, sorrow, and plenty of homesteading projects. Their support and laughter keep me rooted, even when life feels hectic.

Living and Learning Together
Every influence—books, community, and family—forms part of the foundation that supports my growth. They motivate me to write, to homestead with purpose, and to live each day with gratitude. Growth doesn’t happen in isolation; it blossoms through shared stories, nurturing relationships, and open hearts.

Now it’s your turn. Who or what have you found to be influential in your life?

If this journey speaks to you, I’d love to have you join this community. We discuss simple living, homesteading, and personal growth through family life. Subscribe to my blog for weekly reflections, practical tips, and heartfelt stories about building a life rooted in intention and simplicity. Let’s keep growing and creating something meaningful together.

My Top 5 Essential Grocery Staples for Homesteading and Scratch Cooking

List your top 5 grocery store items.

If you walked down a typical grocery store aisle with me, you might think I’m lost. While most American shoppers reach for convenience, I’m the one squinting at sacks of flour, jars of yeast, and tubs of coconut oil — the same staples my great-grandmother probably chose 75 years ago. I don’t shop for ready-made meals; I shop for possibility.

At home, those bulk ingredients become whatever we need — bread, tortillas, sauces, or even snacks. If I don’t know how to make something, I learn. A simple search and a quiet evening in the kitchen have taught me more than any cookbook could. This hands-on, old-fashioned approach has saved us thousands over the years, but more importantly, it’s built confidence, patience, and gratitude for every meal we share.

Now, that doesn’t mean I don’t enjoy Chinese takeout once in a while! I’ve learned to make my own dumpling and stir-fry recipes — they’re delicious when they turn out, and hilarious when they don’t. (One of my most epic flops was a lemon pepper chicken so salty it could’ve been used as a salt lick.) Mistakes keep me humble, and in a way, they’re the best ingredient for growth.

Bloody Mary with mostly homegrown ingredients

So with gratitude — and a dash of humility — here are my five most essential grocery items and how they shape my kitchen life on the homestead.

5. Coconut Oil

Coconut oil is my go-to multipurpose fat. It melts like butter and works wonders in place of lard or shortening. I use it to pop popcorn, bake desserts, and even blend it into homemade flour tortillas.

Its aroma — faintly sweet and buttery — adds a subtle depth you can’t quite place but always appreciate.

Tip: For tender baked goods, replace half the butter or shortening in your recipe with coconut oil, then reduce liquid slightly. It gives just enough chew without the greasy feel.

4. Active Dry Yeast

Yeast is the quiet hero of my kitchen — small, simple, and full of potential. Watching dough rise never loses its magic, especially when the kitchen smells of warm, sweet yeast and anticipation.

It symbolizes self-reliance: turning flour, water, and salt into something living, breathing, and nourishing.

Tip: Always proof yeast with a pinch of sugar in warm water (around 110°F). If it bubbles within 10 minutes, your dough is ready to rise.

3. Chicken and Beef Bouillon Powder

I lean on bouillon powders for soups, gravies, and especially rice. Cooking rice in chicken or beef stock instead of water transforms it from plain to crave-worthy.

I also mix beef bouillon into my homemade onion soup powder — it adds warmth and richness that store mixes can’t match.

Tip: Swap half the water for stock when cooking noodles, grains, or vegetables. It’s the fastest way to round out flavor without extra sauces or salt.

2. Plain White Sugar

Plain old white sugar earns a spot near the top because it does so much more than sweeten desserts. It wakes up yeast, balances tomato acidity, and — lately — fuels our lemonade habit.

My sister keeps me well-supplied with lemons, so I make fresh lemonade weekly. When the kids come in sun-dusted and thirsty, that chilled pitcher waiting in the fridge makes them light up.

Tip: Add a teaspoon of sugar to tomato sauces or soups to tame acidity without losing depth of flavor.

1. Flour

If coconut oil is the heart of my pantry, flour is its backbone. I buy high-gluten flour for breadmaking, but I’m excited to experiment more with ancient grains soon.

The feel of dough under my hands, the smell of a fresh loaf cooling on the counter, and the crackle as it’s sliced — it’s the rhythm that grounds my kitchen.

Flour builds loaves, tortillas, focaccia, and even desserts. It’s humble, forgiving, and powerful — no one in my house has ever once complained about home-baked anything.

We rarely buy vegetables from the store, relying instead on what we’ve grown and preserved — jars of tomatoes, beans, and pickles lining the pantry. They remind me that what we grow in summer sustains us long after the frost sets in.

Our winter meals center around potatoes, onions, and frozen vegetables like broccoli and bell peppers. We’ve experimented with extending our garden season using a small greenhouse and straw. There’s something deeply satisfying about pulling greens or a carrot from a garden while snow still glitters outside.

As for meat, we’re still building toward full independence. We raise our own pork, purchase beef from my sister’s grass-fed herd, and still buy chicken from the store — for now. One day soon, meat birds will join the homestead lineup, and the circle will feel more complete.

Each grocery item on this list earns its place not for novelty but for versatility. They remind me that eating well doesn’t require endless ingredients — just a few solid building blocks and the creativity to make them shine.

This slower, more deliberate approach to cooking has taught me creativity, patience, and gratitude — lessons that spill over into every other area of life.

Homesteading has shown me that ingredients matter less than the care and love you pour into them. Every loaf, jar, and meal built from raw goods feels like an act of heritage — and hope — in a world that moves too fast.

What five grocery staples would make your list? Please share them in the comments. And if this post inspired you, please like, share, or subscribe to follow more homesteading stories, seasonal recipes, and simple living tips.

Tag: simple living

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5. Coconut Oil

4. Active Dry Yeast

3. Chicken and Beef Bouillon Powder

2. Plain White Sugar

1. Flour

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