Lessons on embracing the fall

An urban farm teaches us to keep our feet pointed downstream

One of the best parts of having an urban farm is feeling a deeper connection to the seasons. It's strange how they seemingly pass by faster and slower when observed - like a trick of physics and time. This summer especially, the months flew by but the days dragged on.

When living in a high-rise in downtown Denver, I was aware that there was weather and life outside, but it didn't shape my days and activities the way it does now. What's going on in the pastures and garden today advises what's happening inside in a more profound way.

If thrown from a raft in a whitewater river, your guide will tell you, "Don't resist it. Let it take you. Point your feet downriver." That's it. That's all you can do. Keep your head above the water, and point your feet downriver so you can use them to bounce yourself like Tigger off any rocks you're about to hit.

You can't swim upcurrent. You'll get exhausted. All you can do is try not to knock your head on the rocks and get past the rapids. 

This fall I'm looking to our farm to help me keep life in perspective, and my feet pointed downriver:

A time to plant?

Many think that spring is the primary time to plant, both literally and figuratively. Fall, however, is just as critical, if not more so, in creating a foundation for the direction of your garden. Now is the time for those quick growers that scorch in the heat of summer. There's still time for spinach, cabbage, chard, peas, and another run at some root veggies like carrots and radishes, depending on where you are.

If you are a person who likes gross food, there is also still time for beets. Since I don't hate myself, I'm going to go ahead and skip those. 

It is also the time of year where the long-term holds go into the ground as it starts to cool down. It's onion, garlic, and shallot season. The foundation we lay in the fall will make or break next year as garlic and onions are the base of most good recipes. A thick layer of healthy mulch will lead to a yummy spring. 

Like my garden, I am looking to this fall as a personal growing season. It’s time for a few quick growers as well as some foundational bulbs. Just because we're breaking out the fuzzy boots and chunky sweaters (unapologetically basic - not sorry) doesn't mean it's the time to let up. Change is hard, and getting laid off was hard too, but the things I'm planting now will pay dividends. An abrupt direction change is a chance to learn new things, (like this substack) try new ideas, and chart a course.

Now is the time for thoughtful and deliberate planting for the future, and I'm planting onions, not beets.

Less can still be more

The goats just started the mating season (brown chicken, brown cow). This means I will start kidding, and I don’t mean joking, around Valentine’s Day. By the way, if you haven't seen my video about breeding a short man and a tall woman, you must watch it. You will die.

Milking goats mimics the way their milk would come in if they were still wild. The act itself sends their bodies the message that babies are still there, even if they're not. Goats have been bred for hundreds of years to produce more milk than their offspring need, so we artificially continue their production by milking them.

Even though milking keeps their production going when it would otherwise dry up, their bodies are still responsive to the seasons. Later in the year, as the breeding season rolls around, their milk volume will drop. This drop is almost always accompanied by a spike in their butterfat content. So there’s less milk, but it’s creamier and tastier.

If the goats still had kids on them, their kids would be eating weeds on their own by now, (hence the drop in Mom’s milk volume). However, they would also need a high-fat supplement to bulk up to survive their first winter (the spike in fat content). It's incredible goat bodies know how to do this naturally. I just got the tests back from the lab and Bella is running at 6.9% butterfat, WHAT!?!?! I’m going to make some Bella ice cream tonight.

Fall is the time of year when I make fewer, but tastier, cheeses. My lattes are EXTRA.

In life, trying to build something new and different means it's ok, and even optimal, to add the work equivalent to fall goat milk. I'm looking for projects that might be lower volume but higher fat. I would trade bulk for the intensity of flavor every day. This substack is one of those projects. I want to do fewer things better than I did before. It's time for some goat cream, baby.

(By the way, if you want to help me succeed at my goal of being a legit writer, please consider a premium subscription.)

On real gratitude 

There is nothing like plucking a homegrown tomato off the vine and eating it like an apple. I have described tomatoes as "globes of distilled sunshine," and that's about as good as it gets. Homegrown tomatoes have little to nothing in common with what you can get in the store. They're barely of the same plant.

Nothing, by the way, against store tomatoes; it's a modern miracle that we can buy them in the middle of winter. Past generations would marvel at that fact, and we just toss them in our carts like it's nothing.

There's something particularly soul-igniting about homegrown tomatoes. They exist to remind us that some things are unique, seasonal, and irreplicable. Every single tomato I'm eating right now requires that beat—that one-second spark. The acid, sweetness, and the explosion on your tongue will shock your senses to attention, and your mind can't be anywhere else but right there. 

I've written about struggling and digging deep to find gratitude every day, even in a magic dishwasher.

At least for me, there is no way to eat a real tomato without that genuine gratitude. Not the kind on the distressed wood sign in the basic decor section of every store right now, but the kind that leaves you in awe of life. The pop of the sunshine globes does it for me every time. Sometimes it lasts all day, sometimes for just a few minutes, but tomatoes are magic. 

So, dear friends, it's fall. Don't resist it. Let it take you. Point your feet downriver.