The plot twists a life takes

One night, Jason and I once had a conversation in the kitchen that I’ve returned to during my lowest points as a farmer. Back in those days, he listened to farming podcasts almost every day, and he’d report back the most interesting stories. His favorite was the Farmer-to-Farmer podcast, hosted by the late Chris Blanchard. The Ruminant was another good one. These podcasts were like fuel in our earliest farming years. Without them, we may not have kept going during the hardest times. That’s because the farmers who shared their stories didn’t just talk of their successes, they also let us peek into past wounds. The hard stuff. The embarrassing stuff. The real stuff. They revealed their failures to us so we might do better, and they showed us we weren’t alone in our struggles.

On that evening in our kitchen, Jason was telling me about Blue Moon Community Farm, in Wisconsin. He’d heard about Blue Moon thanks to Chris’s podcast. The farmer’s name is Kristen, and her story struck a chord with Jason. You see, there were several parallels between her history and our currently unfolding situation. The main similarity was that Kristen spent years working a second job while farming. This dual life has been Jason’s situation every season. By day, he works in local government. By evening and by weekend, he farms. For more than half the year, he works around 90 hours a week in total. From one season to the next, when it just never seemed to get any easier, I thought about Kristen, and what Jason had told me: after seven years, she was able to quit her second job and farm full time.

In less than a week, another CSA season will have come and gone. Season No. 7. And as I write this, Jason is tucked away in his courthouse office, still working for the county. Clearly, he hasn’t made the leap to the farm yet. So why not?

To answer that question, we need to rewind back to when Jason started the farm as a little backyard operation. At that time, he’d just been hired for an entry-level position with the county. The pay was modest, and it was entirely feasible to build a farm that someday matched the income of his full-time job, so this became the goal.

Then, after years of eking by when it came to money, Jason got a major promotion. Now, he was the director of his department, and we could finally catch our breath financially. It seemed foolish to walk away. Besides that, he liked his job and was excited about the new opportunity.

Then, another change came. At that time, I was the managing editor of a local newspaper. After 14 years as a small-town journalist, let me assure you, reporters and editors are motivated by their love of the work and their communities, not by the pay or hours. And the time had come for me to be with my family. In Season 3, I resigned and began life at home and on the farm.

As a one-income family, we found ourselves struggling to get ahead once again. Even the smallest home or car repair, or medical issue, seemed to put us in a bind. We’d never been what you’d call big spenders, and Jason was making a decent income for our part of the country, so what were we doing wrong?

After going through some really rough money patches, we took a ruthless assessment of the situation and our habits. We were brutally honest with ourselves. Upon doing this, we discovered that the answer, as they so often do, was hiding right under our noses.

It was our debt. Plain and simple. We had student loan debt, credit card debt, and car loan debt. We’d bought into the American lie that debt is “normal” your whole life. That it belonged right up there with the main certainties in life: death and taxes. These debt payments and their monthly interest rates were bleeding us dry for years. If you totaled them up, the monthly bill was the clear reason we never felt like we had any money. It was like constantly treading in deep water.

Now that we had a diagnosis of the problem, we drew up a battle plan. We immediately went into what we dubbed a “budget lockdown.” This meant we set a budget at the start of every month, and not a single cent went for anything other than our absolute necessities or paying off bad debt. We applied what’s called the “debt snowball” method. Look it up, it’ll change your life. We also eliminated anything that didn’t reflect the life we wanted to make. We ditched cable TV, unhealthy and pricey meals in restaurants, and useless consumer crap. We made a budget for our life and stuck to it. (Side note: If this interests you, check out the Mr. Money Mustache blog, especially in his early years. I don’t agree with everything he says, but he shoots straight about the toll debt takes. In one post, he wrote that you should think of debt like it’s your head on fire. The mental image of my head engulfed in flames was extremely useful when dealing with spending temptations.)

The student loans were the first to go. Next, credit cards. Then, our car payment. Every time we paid off a debt, we rolled that money into paying off the next one.

After about two years, we were debt free. It felt like we suddenly had wings on our feet.

Now, our monthly bills include: insurances, our house, one cell phone (I haven’t had a cell phone in 15 years), one landline and internet, and electric, plus a few streaming services.

In addition to our bills, we budget every month for groceries and gasoline, and if there’s a special occasion, or we anticipate a specific expense, we set money aside for it. It might sound strict, and I suppose it is, but you can’t put a price on the mental and emotional freedom a budget provides.

As of right now, we live on about one-third of our monthly income, and save the other two-thirds.

So, here’s the magical thing about paying off debt and living on a budget: you realize you don’t need nearly as much money as you thought you did. And this breaks the future wide open.

With all debts paid (minus the house, as mentioned), we now had an exact number for what we needed to live on each year, and we could construct a farm budget to fit our needs.

At first, we set our sights on spring of 2022. Jason would quit his day job right before the start of Season 8. But around this time, Jason began thinking about his unique skill set from his years of county work. He’d become an expert grant writer and had multi-million dollar projects under his belt. Walking away from those talents entirely, and parting with something he enjoyed doing and believed was worthwhile to communities, would be just plain foolish. He decided he wanted to continue doing what he loves about his current job, but on his own terms, and, most importantly, on his own time. Thus, his new company was born: Spark Community Capital. So, in what’s been our hardest season, we now had a new challenge to contend with, Jason using vacation days, evenings, and weekends, to propel Spark forward.

Almost immediately, Spark began to reveal its potential. With this development, we felt safe moving the quit date up. Jason informed his employer that he’d like to be done no later than Jan. 1, 2022. Whenever they’ve found his replacement, he’ll continue with the county on a limited, as-needed capacity, helping with a long-term revitalization project in downtown Oil City at 100 Seneca (Cornplanter Square - this project is awesome, check it out). But he’ll be a free agent otherwise.

So do you know what this means?!? Jason will be joining the farm next season!!! It sounds odd to say he’ll be “joining” the farm, since he’s already such a crucial part of the operation, but now he won’t be squeezing his farm work in until the sun goes down, or in many cases, long after it’s set.

Now, you might be thinking, “Won’t you be in the same boat?” What about Spark? Won’t he still be working two jobs? Technically, yes, but Spark will supplement our income and help us continue to build our savings and (finally) start investing. And we’re building schedules for us both that keep Spark time and farm time and my other pursuits in check. No more 90-hour weeks. We’re ready to be the farm family we’ve wanted to be.

Isn’t it interesting, all the turn of events - the plot twists - that make up a life? The best outcomes have happened when we’ve followed our hearts and led with our conscience. That’s why my mind always returned to that conversation in the kitchen, when Jason first told me all about Blue Moon. It was his way of asking me to believe in him, and to believe in us. To trust the process and the hard work and long hours. That conversation was his way of asking me if I was willing to embark on the journey with him. With our destination drawing near, we can see new journeys on the horizon. My answer remains the same. I’m ready. Let’s go.

~ Stella

“ Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?”

— Mary Oliver, The Summer Day

The watermelon picnic

On a sunny, warm September evening, Silas and I rode up to the farm to pick beans. He had on his trademark look - a straw hat on a thin rope, with crimson trim and a red plastic sheriff’s badge in the center. It’s a part of his favorite outfit - his “cowboy shirt,” a button-down, brown, imitation corduroy material and blue jeans that are three inches too short.

As he climbed out of the truck, he looked over his shoulder at me from under his hat, and said, “You know where I’m going.”

“Raspberries?” I guessed.

“No, to look for McChunkys.”

Milkweed McChunkys - our nickname for monarch caterpillars. They feast on milkweed, then spin their cocoons under the leaves. In the caterpillar stage, they’re striped black and yellow, and as September passes, they take on a delightful plumpness. So, they’re, you know, Milkweed McChunkys.

Every time Silas saw me carrying another bucket of beans to the truck, he’d check to see how much longer. “Almost done,” I’d say, and he’d wander off again. He’s a patient kid.

Unable to locate a Milkweed McChunky, he eventually turned his attention to the watermelon patch. He carried over a little melon, and asked if I would “supervision” him while he cut it open.

Silas has used a knife since age three. When you watch both parents use knives all the time, and your best friend is your grandpa, who is always using his knife, the fact that you don’t have a knife starts to irk you early on.

One time, when he was four, I looked up from chopping kale to see him meandering my direction. I remember his slow, weaving route, and how he clutched one hand with the other. Oh, no, I thought. He wasn’t crying, though, so maybe it was nothing. But as he drew closer, the tension in his face was clear.

“Buddy, did you cut yourself?”

He nodded, his eyes welling up.

“Let me see, honey.”

He held up a little bloody slice on his finger. Enough to smart, but not serious. When I told him we’d go home and get a bandage and that accidents happen to everybody, the dam finally broke and he burst into sobs in my arms. I do believe that more than the pain of the cut, he feared having his knife privileges revoked.

Starting around age six, he began whittling sticks and bamboo, and my patience. He likes to sit and do it on the porch steps. After passing him for the sixth time, and watching a small branch transform into a punji stick, finally becoming more dangerous than the knife, I have to take it away from him. He gives in willingly, knowing he’s just made something no kid should have.

He’s always had a good sense about the knife, which is why he asks me to “supervision” him with a melon. I do dislike watching him cut a melon, but I have to admit that he’s careful and he knows the limits of his own strength. He understands that if he’s having to try too hard, it’s too dangerous.

After he shared the little watermelon with me, I suggested he go pick raspberries. Jason planted raspberry varieties that ripen in waves, so we have September berries. Silas said he’d wait for me to pick berries. I sighed, thinking how this would prolong an already late evening.

As I continued plucking beans, he chattered about getting a picnic ready for us. “Oh, that’s nice,” I would say, only half paying attention and trying to avoid the thorns in the beans.

When the beans were finally done, he led the way to the berries. We walked down one side, and up the other. It took awhile, since the little fellow would not be rushed during this activity, which to him is a sacred ritual. And besides, he waited ages for his bean-picking mother.

By that time, the sun had dipped below the trees, and I wanted to go home. Hopefully, he’ll forget about this picnic of his, I thought.

As I opened my mouth to say, “Alright, buddy, let’s head on home,” I saw it. I closed my lips tight and swallowed the words. He’d overturned a harvest bin for a table, and flipped over two little buckets for seats. On the table, he’d laid out two tiny watermelons, two Roma tomatoes, and a clump of wood sorrel, roots and all.

“Ready to have your picnic?” I asked instead, incredibly thankful that sometimes my brain does move faster than my tongue.

We sat down on the buckets, and under my wary eye, he cut up his second watermelon of the night, slicing and turning over and over until he had four wedges.

“I picked you some wood sorrel because I know you just love it,” he said, using his best dinner host voice. It was true, it’s a tender, lemony treat I’ve enjoyed ever since my sister-in-law first pointed it out to me a few years ago. I chewed the sorrel and eyed the Romas, wondering if I’d have to eat a whole, plain tomato next.

But a few bites of juicy Blacktail Mountain watermelon, and a couple nibbles of wood sorrel made him happy, so we collected the tomatoes, dismantled the picnic, and me and the sheriff rolled through the tall grass for home.

~ Stella

Summer to fall

This is Jason’s haul from last night. We’re nearing the end of the big tomato harvests, and now it’s time to move on to squash and other autumn crops.

All of the tomatoes are heirlooms for this week’s CSA members. The yellow are pineapple, and the pink are brandywine. The green are ripe; they’re a variety named Aunt Ruby’s German green.

This was our first squash harvest of the season. We’ll continue stockpiling that for the last few weeks of the CSA. After we pack this week’s share, we’re down to three more CSA weeks.

~ Stella

Ghost in the pine

We’re still adjusting to cyber school, and a walk after Silas’s last assignment of the day has helped us both this past week. While I prefer a quiet, non-academic stroll, Silas has insisted on toting along our tree identification book, and stopping us every few feet.

I’m not sure if it’s me, or the quality of the guidebook, but I can never seem to help him zero in exactly on what kind of tree we’re staring up at. At least for now, he seems content with painfully general classifications. “Well, I guess it’s some kind of birch,” or, “Well… we know it’s a pine.” While he is interested in trees, I suspect a bid for my attention is at the root of the field guide expeditions.

On one such walk this week, we stood about a half-mile from home, under a towering pine, thumbing through the guidebook’s illustrations.

“Look!” Silas shouted as he pointed. The exclamation made my heart thud to my stomach, and that’s where it stayed as I peered into the forest, unable to see what startled him.

“There,” he said, pointing under the giant pine.

Nestled on a bed of brown needles, her legs folded delicately under her large body was a doe, chewing a mouthful of pine needles and staring at us. Lances of late afternoon sun pierced the boughs and melted to dapples on her tan coat.

“She has whiskers. I didn’t know deer had whiskers,” Silas whispered. He was right, she did, and I didn’t know that either. They twinkled silver in the sun and flicked up and down as she chewed and blinked at us. Here we had stood, with our book, in our straw hats, thinking we were studying nature, when nature was studying us.

Being that Silas is 7, he stared at the deer in complete wonder for just a few moments, then tapped my hand to get me to open the field guide again and get back to work.

“Well, I think it’s some kind of fir, Silas. I really don’t know,” I mumbled distractedly, not wanting to give up the eye-to-eye connection with the doe. 

With another woodland giant vaguely identified, we both looked up from the pages to the hidden den. She was gone. She’d made not a sound, and not a single bough even bobbed. Her pine needle bed was pressed into a cozy bowl. Only speckles of sun warmed the spot now. I was disappointed she was gone. That we’d missed it with our noses in the book. But she never wanted to be seen in the first place, and was surely relieved to be a ghost in the woods again. ~ Stella

Kale hideaway

PHOTO Stella Ruggiero

Hello, welcome to my kale leaf house.

Panzanella - a summer taste of Tuscany

I love food aha! moments. When someone introduces you to a simple and delicious ingredient or recipe. This happens at least once each season, thanks to a CSA member.

The recipe below is for panzanella, and it was one such moment. It was sent in by CSA member Mark. I used it in this week’s CSA newsletter, and also asked him to share a good Italian proverb about food. I’ll let the curious amongst us seek its meaning.

Mark’s explanation of panzanella is so interesting and clear, I’ll just let him take it from here.

~ Stella

“Mangia bene e caca forte e non aver paura della morte.” - Italian folk saying

HOW TO MAKE PANZANELLA

Panzanella is the epitome of Italian cucina povera or “poor kitchen.” Historically, this was the food of the impoverished. Now, it’s a catch-all phrase for an inexpensive dish that makes use of simple ingredients and is prepared easily.

Panzanella is a mixing of the word for bread - pane - and that of an archaic word for bowl - zanella. This high-summer dish is native to Tuscany, but one sees variations across the region.

Bread, tomatoes, red onion, basil, olive oil, salt, and pepper are at the core of panzanella.

This is a fool-proof recipe! That stale bread on your counter or buried in your freezer? Toast it, cube it, and put it into a bowl.

Then, add a number of diced, very ripe tomatoes and a few slivers of red onion. Thinly slice some basil and add it, along with some salt and a few grinds of black pepper.

Finish the dish with a healthy drizzle of extra virgin olive oil and toss it gently.

You’ll see variants of panzanella, depending on what’s in the fridge and needs to be eaten. When I have things like cucumbers, peppers, and celery on hand - as we CSAers have had recently - I often add them to the dish. Sometimes a bit of red wine vinegar or some capers is added to give the dish a boost. Italians closer to the sea often add anchovies to the mix, too.

Mangia bene!

~ Mark

Keeping it weird

It’s been a great tomato year on the farm. These are different varieties of artisan tomatoes. The bucket on the far right is chocolate cherry. The name comes from the dusky purple color, not the taste. They have a low-acid, earthy flavor.

A woman at the farmers market once said we were the farm with all the “weird stuff.” We’re proudly living up to that reputation this year, with dragon’s tongue beans, and purple beans that do a little hocus-pocus when cooking in the pot. We’ve got curious-looking black radishes and watermelon radishes. And the tomatoes around here are totally freaky. Chocolate cherry, metallic pink, neon yellow, green, black and orange and yellow cherry tomatoes dangle like ornaments on the twisting vines.

Weird seems to work for us. In total this week, we’ll haul about 600 pounds of tomatoes (normal and weird) out of the gardens. It’s been a few years since we’ve had this kind of tomato harvest. The new deer fence, combined with the lean and lower method, landscape fabric, and straw all contributed to a great tomato year.

Now, if you’re picturing pristine, weed-free high tunnels and neatly-trellised outdoor rows, you must be thinking of a different farm. Things got wild again this season. Not as wild as in the past, thanks to the fabric and straw, but still, the casual observer would probably see a mess. Weird, wild mess or not, that plot is producing truckload after truckload of produce right now.

~ Stella

Two-thirds of the way through our best & perhaps hardest season

“The first week of August hangs at the very top of summer, the top of the live-long year, like the highest seat of a Ferris wheel when it pauses in its turning. The weeks that come before are only a climb from balmy spring, and those that follow a drop to the chill of autumn, but the first week of August is motionless, and hot. It is curiously silent, too, with blank white dawns and glaring noons, and sunsets smeared with too much color.” - Natalie Babbitt, from Tuck Everlasting

Doesn’t she describe the beginning of August perfectly? I’m behind the times with this passage, but an earlier draft of this post was written in the first week of August, at about the half-way point of the CSA season, but now we’re two-thirds through, and it feels like the Ferris wheel is on the downturn again.

But let’s backtrack a bit to the half-way point because there’s a clear shift in priorities on the farm at that mark. From March through late July, it’s all about seeding, transplanting, and upkeep. That five-month stretch is intense. During this time, Jason works close to 90 hours a week between the farm and his full-time day job. I clock around 55 hours for the farm, not counting time spent on my separate writing life. Let me put it out here honestly: the current system technically works, but it’s not at all our vision for our family and the farm in the long term. The set up of our lives right now is more about surviving the season, rather than thriving in it.

Around Week 9 of the CSA season, there comes a change almost overnight. It’s the half-way point, and time has run out to seed and transplant most things. And although we’ll continue transplanting lettuce and some fall and winter crops, the time has come to harvest. All of those pepper plants and tomato vines are living out their intended purpose.

Given the design of our life at this junction, there is no time or energy for weeding, or a lot of other tasks that aren’t deemed completely necessary. In the weeks ahead, given our current workload, we must use our strength for harvesting. It makes no sense to weed a parsley patch, when there are ripe heirloom tomatoes to gather. We’ll shift back to more upkeep when the season winds down in autumn.

It’s also that time when you realize summer won’t be here much longer. The other day, Silas and I walked down to look at his garden row. It grows beside a patch of sunflowers and zinnias. I knew they were all in bloom, but only because they sort of flashed red and orange and yellow as I drove by in the pickup every day. This was the first time I stood in front of them and really saw them, all full of beating butterfly wings and humming bees.

Now, let me tell you why this season has been our best, and maybe one of our most difficult. (It’s a toss up between this year and season two.) Here’s the cliff notes version of the farm’s history.

In the beginning, it was a little backyard operation. The next year, we relocated the farm to its current location, and did all farm work by hand. I was still working full-time, and the season was hard, especially for Jason, who sustained an injury and then a wicked case of shingles. In season three, I left my full-time job, and we bought the walking tractor. In seasons four and five, we hired a part-time helper. Then, in season 6, the pandemic shut down Jason’s workplace and he worked from home for an entire season. This freed up his commute times and lunch breaks, and frankly, more of his mental and physical energy, and also meant he could care for Silas while I was up at the farm.

This year, he’s back in the office full time, and we opted to forgo help. So it’s been a tough one.

At the same time, it’s been our best season for several reasons. Chief among them, of course, is the deer fence. The stress of that situation, and all the extra work it created in past seasons is over. There’s also the landscape fabric, and the straw, and the ability to draw on seven years of farming and business experience.

There’s another reason why each week of this season feels like another leg of a difficult journey behind us. A seismic life change is coming our way in 2022. I want so badly to tell you about it, but it’s still a little too soon. As Tom Petty sang, “The waiting is the hardest part.” This season has been one of the hardest because we’re waiting for something. A change is coming.

~ Stella

1/2 bushels of tomatoes are ready!

What an exciting day of picking! These are heirloom tomatoes. They’re grown from seed that’s been saved for generations. They grow in beautiful colors and unusual shapes. They’re how a tomato is supposed to look and taste. In our opinion, they make the most delicious sauce.

Hello to our fellow tomato lovers! It’s time to sell tomatoes by the half bushel.

If you’d like to order, email PlotTwistFarm@gmail.com, or message us on Facebook. Let us know how many bushels you’re interested in, and we’ll set up a day for you to pick up at the farm. We’re at 9179 Dingman Road (look for our sign). Dingman Road is located off state Route 27, about half way between Meadville and Titusville.

Here’s what we have. All varieties are delicious for sauce. Like all Plot Twist Farm produce, our tomatoes are grown with absolutely no sprays. Each bushel weighs about 25 pounds.

• HEIRLOOM TOMATOES (any combo of brandywine, pineapple, and Cherokee purple): 1/2 bushel for $40

• PINEAPPLE HEIRLOOM TOMATOES (these are Stella’s FAVORITE!): 1/2 bushel for $40

• RED TOMATOES (a mix of medium-sized to large Mountain Magics and Early Girls): 1/2 bushel for $32

• MIXED TOMATOES (any combo of heirlooms and red tomatoes): 1/2 bushel for $35

• ROMA TOMATOES (aka “sauce tomatoes”): COMING SOON 1/2 bushel for $35

  ~ Stella & Jason

Um… those aren't potatoes

On Sunday morning, we were digging up red potatoes when the potato digger unearthed these soft, ping-pong ball-sized eggs. They’re the handiwork of a snapping turtle mama.

We’d unknowingly met the likely mother about two months ago. She was trapped inside the deer fence, and we had to use a shovel and wheelbarrow to gently relocate her to the woods.

Now, you’ve probably heard the saying “meaner than a snake.” Well, it could be meaner than a turtle. She was a fierce lady. When I tried to nudge her on the shovel with a hoe, she grabbed the metal in her curved, beak-like mouth and nearly yanked it from my grasp. And when we flipped her on her shell, to better scoop her up, she flipped herself upright with one powerful flop. She weighed around 20 pounds, and was tougher than a little armored tank.

The tractor wheels and tines of the potato digger had went over the potato row about three times before we discovered the nest. We planted the potatoes in the spring, and she must have slipped in and dug a hole for her babies right under our noses.

From what we read, when relocating snapping turtle eggs, you should move them as little as possible, and try to keep them oriented the way you found them. So don’t turn them. It has to do with how the embryo is positioned.

We transported about 40 eggs to a patch of woods down near the farm pond. We dug a hole, and then put soil and compost over them and tried to hide it with leaves. Hopefully, at least a few of them will get a chance to grow up and be as mean as their mama.

We’re wondering if this was the mother turtle. We relocated her from inside the deer fence about two months ago.

~ Stella