Taxing situation

We grow food,
and invest in new soil.
We started to sell some of it
in 2015.
Tax time arrives.
There is a Schedule C
that has a space to deduct expenses
for paper shredding
but no line for seeds.
Then, there is Schedule F.
A unique form,
set up for farmers only,
who make money
on food they grow
on their own.

Slow Transitions

(Inspired by the appearance of chives in April, and the merits of food saved year round)

Dinner tonight was risotto.
It included
arborio rice, of course, from Italy;
chicken broth, made from the carcass of a chicken who once graced our yard;
mushrooms and sausages from local farmers;
dehydrated tomatoes from our harvest last summer;
spaghetti squash strands and green beans, frozen from two years past,
a leek from a small local farmer,
and chives,
fresh picked today.

Before slow food,
risotto was what you ate on a fancy night.
Store bought vegetables and meats paired with
perhaps broth in a can
shortened the prep, and
made a meal that was yummy but lacking.
Slow food changes the equation.

No fancy night, here.
We had leftover broth,
broth we didn't want to freeze and forget about,
broth that only would last in the refrigerator
five to seven days.
Broth is the result of a chicken
cut up and cooked into 1-3 meals before the carcass
goes into water and becomes,
meals four and five.
If there's a whole chicken in your diet every 10 days,
risotto will be more frequent.

Garlic harvested in July.
Squash picked and preserved in August.
Beans harvested in September.
Tomatoes dehydrated in October.
Chives fresh as of today.
Call it risotto of the year's seasons,
summer unwilling to yield to fall,
fall holding its own through winter,
winter not ready to recede into spring,
and the new season.

Grit

(Shameless rip-off, in some ways, but runners who also are writers find insights in the oddest of places. The idea of grit comes from a blog on running. As always, running seems to apply to everything else we are trying to do in life.)

Grit
The extra ingredient --
To make it through the Boston marathon,
or any other marathon,
provided you're not injured,
assuming you've trained.
To push through the last hump of negotiations for tenure,
or any other life milestone,
provided you're scandal free,
assuming you've worked.
To be able to celebrate life on a farm,
or any other dialogue
with land,
provided you're working land,
assuming you're free.
One running adviser reports:
Consistency is one piece.
Training is one piece.
Motivation two pieces
Grit, the sugar that sprinkles on top.

Kidding

After the cold snap, a thaw
Two goats, heavy with child, build nests and nuzzle noses to palms
in their blankets of straw.
Online calculators predict a birth tomorrow,
and another one Friday.
We watch and we hope --
that it will be smooth,
that the kidding -- the birthing -- will be seamless,
that the new kids -- the babies -- will be cute.

Hens flap up to the highest of haystacks and lay eggs in new nests up there.
Others find comfort near the goats,
while one goes broody in the hen house.
Fifty two -- or so -- chicks cluck crazily under two heat lamps.
Spring has arrived.
For kids, we wait.

Haiku to snow

Under April snow
garlic sprouts huddle in straw,
longing to poke through.

Three thoughts

Three thoughts close out the day --
Eighteen degrees and snow in April is not nice.
Slow running resists a world that turns too fast.
Freedom is all about giving up the will to exceed all expectation.

On a day like day three of April,
A Sunday,
it is all right
to sleep late,
do dishes and fold clothes, in place of grading papers,
to spend an afternoon immersed
in nylon brushes and acrylic color,
to throw paint on a canvas,
in the spirit of reclaiming time.

The year rushed through winter, toward an early spring,
causing those disinclined to like the snow to cheer.
But perhaps nature needed a few more days to prepare,
        And did so with a week of "sick days" --

Sudden snow, and a sharp dip in temperatures,
cold glittering rays of sun coupled with those Northwest gusts
all in the spirit of buying time.

Time, more scarce than water,
        yet squandered willfully --
        as we race ahead of ourselves,
and forget to check in on the present;
as we rush to exceed all expectations,
and displace our joy for journey,
until the destination comes,
with hollowness.

Like winter yowls in early April,
we can turn our clocks back,
and slow down
in an effort to reclaim the reasons why we live in the first place.

April 2

The date makes it clear that spring is well underway in the Northeast.
This year, the calendar and climate correlate.
Snow has melted, though there is some in the forecast;
The ground has thawed; green shoots of garlic are beginning to peek through their thick straw overcoats.
Daffodils dance in the breeze; crocuses and violets soon will blanket the earth in a deep purple haze.

In the farm fields, however, the past stands tall --
withered, browned but resolute, roots clinging deeply to earth,
holding hard-earned inches of topsoil carefully in place.
The stalks of last year's harvest evoke joy, sadness, twinges of guilt.
Moments of savoring sweetness,
moments of rancid rage,
moments of soured reconciliation, of bitter tumult.

The stalks of the past will soon be hand turned under;
in soil, they will decompose and in so doing nourish new growth.
What they represented will no longer be relevant,
unless we choose to remember.