I'm getting more used to the idea of being the organic farmers who go to the only diner in the nearest (two-blocks-squared) town and order a lunch of french fries, pie with ice cream, and tea. I used to think we needed to set an example. Now I think we're human, and sometimes we like ice cream for lunch. Tell me you don't.
Of course, what the small town doesn't know is that we've also been participating in self-imposed cooking classes all week. Yesterday was teamwork Wednesday, tonight is mine. The problem with running a small farm, you see, is that by the time dinner rolls around, you have neither time nor energy to make it. So you have pasta. Or cereal. Or cinnamon toast. (Okay, maybe it's not usually that bleak, maybe there usually is some chopping of fresh things, but you get the idea: we eat a lot of simple things over and over and over again.) But not this week. No, this week we've been alternating nights, and every night we've eaten like kings. Or at least like people who aren't trying to give themselves scurvy. I think it might be a new standing challenge. Tonight: rapini.

Which reminds me, I need to order the final bit of our seeds. Melons and eggplant, another variety of carrot, quinoa and amaranth, probably a couple other things I jotted down and no longer remember. The seedlings in our grow room look all sorts of happy; it's very exciting. Also exciting is the brick fireplace A is building in the hoophouse as we speak. It will have a flat, open top to boil syrup down on. Right now we are boiling on a propane stove, and the fireplace that's on the main floor of the barn. The propane stove goes as soon as his fireplace is finished. I love this mud/maple season. So much.
Even if, as we speak, my toes are still frozen from hiking out to check on our bees and take a look at the new hoophouse frame. I can't seem to remember to wear proper boots when we stop in at that side of the property lately; it's always on the way from somewhere else. Somewhere with sidewalks. Somewhere that lets me wear shoes made of thin cotton when there's still knee deep snow in some places. My mother always hated that. I'm glad that she didn't get to see me sink to my knees and trip when I was running back from the apiary. Although she would have had a good laugh. I sure did, especially when I didn't want to catch myself with my ungloved hands, so I used my elbows instead.

Now you know, internet; I hope your day is at least as graceful.