Dear Farm Journal,

I begin another Sunday with a farm fresh frittata and fried potatoes, almost every ingredient from this farm. It takes a good chunk of the morning, collecting, chopping, boiling, sauteing, and baking, but it is totally worth it when we belly up to the table. After a thoroughly satisfying breakfast, we move slowly about our tasks, stomachs extended from those last couple bites that we know we didn’t need, but couldn’t quite resist. Rufus goes into machinery land, repairing a wagon and working on hay, while I weed the broccoli, brussels sprouts, onions, and fennel in Field E. Then I make my way to Field A to remove a salad mix planting that has bolted. I find it funny that when lettuce finishes out its life cycle, it begins to loop up toward the sky, creating little lettuce towers reaching for the sun. While I work, Papa Rich pulls up and offers me a beer. We shoot the breeze in a casual Sunday fashion, cracking our usual sarcastic antics about the ridiculousness of farming. There is nothing like commiserating with an old farmer to make you feel like your livelihood is justified and valid, something worth giving your life to. Papa Rich and I wax poetic and agree that at the end of our lives, we will have something to be proud of.



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