I’m a former ad girl turned bestselling author turned Earth Mama and soil aficionado — or maybe I’ve always been all three. I’ve always liked to eat (a lot) and cook (a lot) but it wasn’t until we bought some land in the Hudson Valley that my brown thumb turned green. Isn’t that a song? So now my life revolves around my husband, my children, my friends and neighbors, my seed catalogs, my library, my writing, my trusty herb snippers, my farmhouse sink, the seasons and my Shaker gathering basket.
I believe in magic and potions and growing enough to share. My garden, like my cooking — like everything else in my life — doesn’t always work out the way I expected, but I’ve realized that’s not the point. The journey, they say, is where the story happens. For me, that’s in my garden, yanking weeds from their stubborn purchase in my soil, dipping into my pocket for another Fava bean seed to shove in the ground, another strand of stretchy tape to wrap around my unruly peas.
I wear my sunscreen. I drink wine with my dinner. I gobble up books on soil and composting and growing vegetables every which way. I guess you could say that growing my own stuff has taught me about a lot the world. I’m happier than I’ve ever been. Nothing floats my boat like the aforementioned collection of people and my ever-growing patch of land outside my kitchen window.
Cook it. Juice it. Slice it. Serve it. Write about it. Till it. Compost it. Share it. Be proud of it. Respect it. Pay attention to it. Don’t over-Mother it. Don’t get too invested in its success. Get dirty. Get scandalous.
Get your basket and join me in my garden.