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the intense beauty of a sunny day in middle-autumn is reflected in the pattern of life on the little garden- farm. days of rain draw us closer to the fire, reunited with our stitching projects, our drawing, our writing and our stacks of books. mostly we potter, restoring order after the chaos of spring and summer. all the repairs and improvements have waited their turn.

then the sun comes out.

i admit to waves of panic on a rare sunny day. where the pace of a rainy day trundles along, getting things done as we go, a shining day demands action. quickly, pick the apples! sweep the slippery leaves from the paths! bring in firewood and kindling! take the restless herd out foraging! add bedding to the deep litter run! yet the household doesn’t pause in its demands, pulling us in every direction.

all our tending of the garden has rooted down now as we focus on planting garlic and filling the orchard with flowering bulbs. we get deeply into the soil, squirrelling away future possibilities. we’ll sow broad beans next, and mulch the soil that isn’t already blanketed by buckwheat. most of our garden nursery has now been planted out for a quiet winter of dormancy, rooting deeply in, but there are stragglers yet to be settled in new homes. piles of branches wait for chipping or biochar, piles of apples wait for pressing day.

after a hectic sunny day, i sleep soundly. then i’m grateful for another bout of rain, to slow down and turn inward again.

my new series of films is preoccupied with just these sorts of seasonal patterns. join the list to hear when the journal of small work is out.

appleturnover

•

the intense beauty of a sunny day in middle-autumn is reflected in the pattern of life on the little garden- farm. days of rain draw us closer to the fire, reunited with our stitching projects, our drawing, our writing and our stacks of books. mostly we potter, restoring order after the chaos of spring and summer. all the repairs and improvements have waited their turn.

then the sun comes out.

i admit to waves of panic on a rare sunny day. where the pace of a rainy day trundles along, getting things done as we go, a shining day demands action. quickly, pick the apples! sweep the slippery leaves from the paths! bring in firewood and kindling! take the restless herd out foraging! add bedding to the deep litter run! yet the household doesn’t pause in its demands, pulling us in every direction.

all our tending of the garden has rooted down now as we focus on planting garlic and filling the orchard with flowering bulbs. we get deeply into the soil, squirrelling away future possibilities. we’ll sow broad beans next, and mulch the soil that isn’t already blanketed by buckwheat. most of our garden nursery has now been planted out for a quiet winter of dormancy, rooting deeply in, but there are stragglers yet to be settled in new homes. piles of branches wait for chipping or biochar, piles of apples wait for pressing day.

after a hectic sunny day, i sleep soundly. then i’m grateful for another bout of rain, to slow down and turn inward again.

my new series of films is preoccupied with just these sorts of seasonal patterns. join the list to hear when the journal of small work is out.

2 days ago

View on Instagram |

1/12

making a home in an era of ecological crises can feel a bit like rearranging deck chairs on the titanic. when the effort to shift our trajectory in time is so dauntingly complex, so staggeringly vast, surely attention to our own comforts is a form of ignorance.

and yet, i wonder. how much of the sheer waste generated in the last couple of centuries, the devastation laid bare to the earth in pursuit of more, was all in support of how we live? the home and all its trappings is the destination.

perhaps, with our nesting instinct, we can begin to alter the future we are hurtling towards. if all the destruction that lies outside the frame was first cultured in billions of tiny decisions based on a way of seeing who we are, and what home should be, now we can culture something else.

not a mere washing of sentiment over the same old story, but a fundamental shift, expressed within the home and reverberating out. to see home as an organism embedded in the greater biosphere. home as life-affirming.

now we see the materials in our homes not as separate but in a flow, an exchange, a constant breath. if our houses grow toxic, our bodies grow toxic, the earth grows toxic.

we can turn a longing for a beautiful, cosy home into a series of acts that make more life. it matters when we repair, transform, renew. the chest of drawers passes from great aunt to cousin to us. the settee serves for decades, recovered again and again. the natural plaster renders old walls living, breathing.

maybe our photographs of home can emphasise something critical now. we make the future with today’s culture.

the nesting instinct might insulate a roof with scrap wool or pipe greywater to the trees, save up for a double-glazed window. it sources paint that is not plastic. it sees the provenance of an object as its ecology.

within the household we set the bar for how much is enough. when we make our homes, we can say clearly who we are — alive, interconnected, capable of cultivating more life — and reconsider what we need just to live.

what could it look like to live like we’re embedded in a living system with inherent limits? join the list to hear when our new film series is out.

appleturnover

•

making a home in an era of ecological crises can feel a bit like rearranging deck chairs on the titanic. when the effort to shift our trajectory in time is so dauntingly complex, so staggeringly vast, surely attention to our own comforts is a form of ignorance.

and yet, i wonder. how much of the sheer waste generated in the last couple of centuries, the devastation laid bare to the earth in pursuit of more, was all in support of how we live? the home and all its trappings is the destination.

perhaps, with our nesting instinct, we can begin to alter the future we are hurtling towards. if all the destruction that lies outside the frame was first cultured in billions of tiny decisions based on a way of seeing who we are, and what home should be, now we can culture something else.

not a mere washing of sentiment over the same old story, but a fundamental shift, expressed within the home and reverberating out. to see home as an organism embedded in the greater biosphere. home as life-affirming.

now we see the materials in our homes not as separate but in a flow, an exchange, a constant breath. if our houses grow toxic, our bodies grow toxic, the earth grows toxic.

we can turn a longing for a beautiful, cosy home into a series of acts that make more life. it matters when we repair, transform, renew. the chest of drawers passes from great aunt to cousin to us. the settee serves for decades, recovered again and again. the natural plaster renders old walls living, breathing.

maybe our photographs of home can emphasise something critical now. we make the future with today’s culture.

the nesting instinct might insulate a roof with scrap wool or pipe greywater to the trees, save up for a double-glazed window. it sources paint that is not plastic. it sees the provenance of an object as its ecology.

within the household we set the bar for how much is enough. when we make our homes, we can say clearly who we are — alive, interconnected, capable of cultivating more life — and reconsider what we need just to live.

what could it look like to live like we’re embedded in a living system with inherent limits? join the list to hear when our new film series is out.

4 days ago

View on Instagram |

2/12

as carbon sequestration goes, charcoal-making has extraordinary potential. we had the good fortune to spend a day learning to make charcoal with a local historian and tried out the basics of this ancient practice, a couple of years ago. from terra-preta in the amazonian rainforests, stone kilns in japan (and all over these islands, which our friend has written a book about), to colliers making clamps in the woods of britain, it is the foundation of rich culture and the rich soil that supports it.

to store carbon in the soil and support the microbiome, while absorbing water events and releasing it slowly, well. it solves a host of our current problems.

we inoculated our little pail of charcoal into biochar by layering it in the deep litter of our chicken run to absorb nitrogen and earthworm castings, then feeding the enriched soil to the trees and gardens. we could make charcoal on a micro scale in our chiminea or wood stove, and we’re looking at the piles of prunings that we intended to have chipped and considering whether to direct some of it to this simple kiln that the historian makes. amazing.

a year later as i broadforked a bed in the new potager, i turned up some of the biochar, which must’ve been harvested with compost out of the chicken run when i sheet-mulched the bed a few months ago. it’s a pleasure to see it and know it has begun its restorative work, and may well continue to benefit this soil for centuries.

as it happened, we made friends that vivid day who have grown so dear to us. as one of them brings all the internal fire of healing to bear on an illness that has affected too many of us, we think of the earth’s great capacity to regenerate as we hold you in our hearts.

as carbon sequestration goes, charcoal-making has extraordinary potential. we had the good fortune to spend a day learning to make charcoal with a local historian and tried out the basics of this ancient practice, a couple of years ago. from terra-preta in the amazonian rainforests, stone kilns in japan (and all over these islands, which our friend has written a book about), to colliers making clamps in the woods of britain, it is the foundation of rich culture and the rich soil that supports it.

to store carbon in the soil and support the microbiome, while absorbing water events and releasing it slowly, well. it solves a host of our current problems.

we inoculated our little pail of charcoal into biochar by layering it in the deep litter of our chicken run to absorb nitrogen and earthworm castings, then feeding the enriched soil to the trees and gardens. we could make charcoal on a micro scale in our chiminea or wood stove, and we’re looking at the piles of prunings that we intended to have chipped and considering whether to direct some of it to this simple kiln that the historian makes. amazing.

a year later as i broadforked a bed in the new potager, i turned up some of the biochar, which must’ve been harvested with compost out of the chicken run when i sheet-mulched the bed a few months ago. it’s a pleasure to see it and know it has begun its restorative work, and may well continue to benefit this soil for centuries.

as it happened, we made friends that vivid day who have grown so dear to us. as one of them brings all the internal fire of healing to bear on an illness that has affected too many of us, we think of the earth’s great capacity to regenerate as we hold you in our hearts.

as carbon sequestration goes, charcoal-making has extraordinary potential. we had the good fortune to spend a day learning to make charcoal with a local historian and tried out the basics of this ancient practice, a couple of years ago. from terra-preta in the amazonian rainforests, stone kilns in japan (and all over these islands, which our friend has written a book about), to colliers making clamps in the woods of britain, it is the foundation of rich culture and the rich soil that supports it.

to store carbon in the soil and support the microbiome, while absorbing water events and releasing it slowly, well. it solves a host of our current problems.

we inoculated our little pail of charcoal into biochar by layering it in the deep litter of our chicken run to absorb nitrogen and earthworm castings, then feeding the enriched soil to the trees and gardens. we could make charcoal on a micro scale in our chiminea or wood stove, and we’re looking at the piles of prunings that we intended to have chipped and considering whether to direct some of it to this simple kiln that the historian makes. amazing.

a year later as i broadforked a bed in the new potager, i turned up some of the biochar, which must’ve been harvested with compost out of the chicken run when i sheet-mulched the bed a few months ago. it’s a pleasure to see it and know it has begun its restorative work, and may well continue to benefit this soil for centuries.

as it happened, we made friends that vivid day who have grown so dear to us. as one of them brings all the internal fire of healing to bear on an illness that has affected too many of us, we think of the earth’s great capacity to regenerate as we hold you in our hearts.

appleturnover

•

as carbon sequestration goes, charcoal-making has extraordinary potential. we had the good fortune to spend a day learning to make charcoal with a local historian and tried out the basics of this ancient practice, a couple of years ago. from terra-preta in the amazonian rainforests, stone kilns in japan (and all over these islands, which our friend has written a book about), to colliers making clamps in the woods of britain, it is the foundation of rich culture and the rich soil that supports it.

to store carbon in the soil and support the microbiome, while absorbing water events and releasing it slowly, well. it solves a host of our current problems.

we inoculated our little pail of charcoal into biochar by layering it in the deep litter of our chicken run to absorb nitrogen and earthworm castings, then feeding the enriched soil to the trees and gardens. we could make charcoal on a micro scale in our chiminea or wood stove, and we’re looking at the piles of prunings that we intended to have chipped and considering whether to direct some of it to this simple kiln that the historian makes. amazing.

a year later as i broadforked a bed in the new potager, i turned up some of the biochar, which must’ve been harvested with compost out of the chicken run when i sheet-mulched the bed a few months ago. it’s a pleasure to see it and know it has begun its restorative work, and may well continue to benefit this soil for centuries.

as it happened, we made friends that vivid day who have grown so dear to us. as one of them brings all the internal fire of healing to bear on an illness that has affected too many of us, we think of the earth’s great capacity to regenerate as we hold you in our hearts.

3 weeks ago

View on Instagram |

3/12

when we learn to make something we need that is as basic as our own toothpaste, it’s surprisingly easy. it’s also counter-cultural activism.

a step away from the corporate, away from toxins and plastic waste, toward thrift, toward autonomy, toward a more immediate sort of life.

it’s a different way to think of convenience. it’s very inconvenient to be utterly dependent on a long, complex, fragile, wasteful supply chain.

having the skills to follow and create recipes, and more than this, the belief that what we make with our own hands can be just as good or even far better than what is sold to us, this empowers us. the simple old fashioned pleasure of making what you need right at home, using basic ingredients, it’s a small revolution.

the journal of small work is my new series of films following what it might look like to take ecological activism into our own hands. join the list above to hear when the first one’s out.

the rough recipe:

1 cup calcium carbonate (chalk)
4 tablespoons coconut oil
2 tablespoons birch sugar (xylitol) dissolved if coarse
¼ teaspoon sea salt
stevia (now) and edible peppermint oil or other flavoured oil to taste

we like to add water to make it creamy, but then we keep the batch in the fridge and just take out smaller amounts as needed.

appleturnover

•

when we learn to make something we need that is as basic as our own toothpaste, it’s surprisingly easy. it’s also counter-cultural activism.

a step away from the corporate, away from toxins and plastic waste, toward thrift, toward autonomy, toward a more immediate sort of life.

it’s a different way to think of convenience. it’s very inconvenient to be utterly dependent on a long, complex, fragile, wasteful supply chain.

having the skills to follow and create recipes, and more than this, the belief that what we make with our own hands can be just as good or even far better than what is sold to us, this empowers us. the simple old fashioned pleasure of making what you need right at home, using basic ingredients, it’s a small revolution.

the journal of small work is my new series of films following what it might look like to take ecological activism into our own hands. join the list above to hear when the first one’s out.

the rough recipe:

1 cup calcium carbonate (chalk)
4 tablespoons coconut oil
2 tablespoons birch sugar (xylitol) dissolved if coarse
¼ teaspoon sea salt
stevia (now) and edible peppermint oil or other flavoured oil to taste

we like to add water to make it creamy, but then we keep the batch in the fridge and just take out smaller amounts as needed.

3 weeks ago

View on Instagram |

4/12

the critical work of our time is not in grand gestures. it is in what i like to call the small work. the tiny step that requires the most energy, because it is the first.

all the energy bound up in avoiding, in meaning to, in wishing, fearing, procrastinating, it’s more than enough to do the work itself. once begun, the energy of the world carries us along. to decide, and then to make that leap into the first step, it’s the hardest part.

the small work is the tiny steps you see here, of weaving the fibre in and out, yes. but the critical task was even smaller, invisible. first, it was to decide to finally give space to a longed-for skill, but most crucially, to make the call. do it now. studying basketry with a neighbour, an icon* is easy. attending a workshop, the decision made. ok, cleaning a neglected kitchen after a long day of intense learning is not easy. our supportive roles ought to be repaid richly.

later, a week, two weeks and the baskets sat waiting, not quite finished, you know this moment? how it can stretch on for months and years? there is the small work again. how to start, when every other task in our world is calling us.

this is the small work. to make the step even smaller. not ‘finishing a basket’ but the tiniest act possible. before i went off for a nap, i filled the sink with warm water and submerged the fibres in their bath to soften and limber up.

when i woke, it was clear what to do. my meditative brain had no argument save that the bed is rather cosy. then how easy to take small steps that build real things, to settle down with the almost-basket, slip the reed over and under, do the work. it’s a pleasure, then.

the work of repairing a world in converging crises, it’s no different. there are no grand gestures. the courageous action is in beginning each task, once we’ve decided, then simply to taking those tiny steps that flow along with their own energy. to make this small, regenerative work a habit, shared across the world like many, many thousands of weavers and knitters binding and stitching, until the world is mended.

i’m taking tiny steps to make a new film series, the journal of the small work. join the list above.

appleturnover

•

the critical work of our time is not in grand gestures. it is in what i like to call the small work. the tiny step that requires the most energy, because it is the first.

all the energy bound up in avoiding, in meaning to, in wishing, fearing, procrastinating, it’s more than enough to do the work itself. once begun, the energy of the world carries us along. to decide, and then to make that leap into the first step, it’s the hardest part.

the small work is the tiny steps you see here, of weaving the fibre in and out, yes. but the critical task was even smaller, invisible. first, it was to decide to finally give space to a longed-for skill, but most crucially, to make the call. do it now. studying basketry with a neighbour, an icon* is easy. attending a workshop, the decision made. ok, cleaning a neglected kitchen after a long day of intense learning is not easy. our supportive roles ought to be repaid richly.

later, a week, two weeks and the baskets sat waiting, not quite finished, you know this moment? how it can stretch on for months and years? there is the small work again. how to start, when every other task in our world is calling us.

this is the small work. to make the step even smaller. not ‘finishing a basket’ but the tiniest act possible. before i went off for a nap, i filled the sink with warm water and submerged the fibres in their bath to soften and limber up.

when i woke, it was clear what to do. my meditative brain had no argument save that the bed is rather cosy. then how easy to take small steps that build real things, to settle down with the almost-basket, slip the reed over and under, do the work. it’s a pleasure, then.

the work of repairing a world in converging crises, it’s no different. there are no grand gestures. the courageous action is in beginning each task, once we’ve decided, then simply to taking those tiny steps that flow along with their own energy. to make this small, regenerative work a habit, shared across the world like many, many thousands of weavers and knitters binding and stitching, until the world is mended.

i’m taking tiny steps to make a new film series, the journal of the small work. join the list above.

3 weeks ago

View on Instagram |

5/12

facing the morning was never my strong suit, not for forty years. two months of learning how to live on a farm persuaded me that being a morning person is a survival strategy. these six years, i’ve been practicing an early morning ritual.

the most important aspect of the ritual is that there are no decisions to make. i’ve already got a plan and there’s nothing to do but the next step. i needn’t consider whether to perform the ritual, i simply relax into the flow.

the key to actually rising, barring insomnia, in which case all bets are sadly off, is that the early morning is a pleasure. i desire it. this isn’t beginning the rush of the day exceedingly early, no. this is a whole other moment that cannot exist in any other form for me, being neither young, free of responsibility, nor night-owlish enough to find liberation in the night. this moment before the day is simply quiet, without demands. it’s too early to clatter about in the kitchen. the inky darkness blankets all the space beyond the lit candle so i am untroubled by the calls of neglected housework. the time is incredibly restricted and i thrive within its limits.

the sort of quiet rituals suited to this moment are the same restorative practices that i crave enough to leave the comfort of a cosy bed. to write to you like this, half-awake, then rise to fill the kettle. lay out the mat, stretch, breathe ‘til the kettle boils. make tea, fill a hot water bottle in its knitted jumper, wrap my cardigan snug. settle down at the writing desk, take up fountain pen and book. scribble undisturbed for a couple of hours.

i’m not fully awake at this time, one foot in the subconscious. these are just the sorts of tasks that thrive in that half-state. the judge in my brain rises later, so i’m free to be, to write without criticism.

this time is naturally checked by the approach of the day. soon i must gather the milk pail, slip into overalls, trudge to the barn to see my little friends. soon i set the soaked oats simmering so we can greet the day with equanimity. the limits only make me long all the more to rise tomorrow.

sustaining life with daily practices is
a subject of my upcoming films, join the list above.

appleturnover

•

facing the morning was never my strong suit, not for forty years. two months of learning how to live on a farm persuaded me that being a morning person is a survival strategy. these six years, i’ve been practicing an early morning ritual.

the most important aspect of the ritual is that there are no decisions to make. i’ve already got a plan and there’s nothing to do but the next step. i needn’t consider whether to perform the ritual, i simply relax into the flow.

the key to actually rising, barring insomnia, in which case all bets are sadly off, is that the early morning is a pleasure. i desire it. this isn’t beginning the rush of the day exceedingly early, no. this is a whole other moment that cannot exist in any other form for me, being neither young, free of responsibility, nor night-owlish enough to find liberation in the night. this moment before the day is simply quiet, without demands. it’s too early to clatter about in the kitchen. the inky darkness blankets all the space beyond the lit candle so i am untroubled by the calls of neglected housework. the time is incredibly restricted and i thrive within its limits.

the sort of quiet rituals suited to this moment are the same restorative practices that i crave enough to leave the comfort of a cosy bed. to write to you like this, half-awake, then rise to fill the kettle. lay out the mat, stretch, breathe ‘til the kettle boils. make tea, fill a hot water bottle in its knitted jumper, wrap my cardigan snug. settle down at the writing desk, take up fountain pen and book. scribble undisturbed for a couple of hours.

i’m not fully awake at this time, one foot in the subconscious. these are just the sorts of tasks that thrive in that half-state. the judge in my brain rises later, so i’m free to be, to write without criticism.

this time is naturally checked by the approach of the day. soon i must gather the milk pail, slip into overalls, trudge to the barn to see my little friends. soon i set the soaked oats simmering so we can greet the day with equanimity. the limits only make me long all the more to rise tomorrow.

sustaining life with daily practices is
a subject of my upcoming films, join the list above.

4 weeks ago

View on Instagram |

6/12

with my generation, thrift, that deep respect for the material, disappeared from the dominant culture. i only caught hold of its tail through the everyday expressions of immigrant elders who knew wartime and depression too well.

this ethic is reviving in response to the destructive logic of an economical model of growth, extraction and obsolescence, made visible, visceral. but without a thorough cultural transformation beneath it all, we are doomed to rubbish the planet over.

thankfully, we also create culture at home, in our everyday actions, performed for an audience of bright young activists. ethics imprint at the table, spreading through neighbourhoods, requested at the library, selected at the shops, told in stories and in pictures, reflected in politics, becoming a movement.

just here, it shows up in the humble pear, picked with gratitude from a century-old tree. each pear is gently pressed at its stem for ripeness, plucked from its firmer companions to be bottled or sauced. peels and cores collect in another pot to boil a delicate juice, yielding pale luminous jelly, or mixing with an overripe pear for its wild yeasts, to ferment beneath an airlock into a primitive wine, then a vinegar. the pear butter cooks down thickly, and after jars upon jars of it are sealed we then marry the next round of pears to early russian apples, with last year’s cider-turned-fine vinegar for its acid, preserving qualities. the last scoopfuls are scraped out as if they are gold leaf over parchment, set in the cooling oven or the solar drier to turn to brittle leather. scraps go to the hens, to compost.

my father lived these principles in renovating our house, slowly taking apart the old, reclaiming the materials. my hands still recall extracting each nail. that thrift was a pleasure, an ethic of respect. i tell you, we wept to see the house next door flattened without so much as saving a doorknob. i still feel nauseous at that brazen wastefulness, a belief made manifest that time is money.

we culture life in daily acts, from garden to kitchen to workplace. ethics are expressed in the end.

the journal of small work is coming to our channel, join the list above.

with my generation, thrift, that deep respect for the material, disappeared from the dominant culture. i only caught hold of its tail through the everyday expressions of immigrant elders who knew wartime and depression too well.

this ethic is reviving in response to the destructive logic of an economical model of growth, extraction and obsolescence, made visible, visceral. but without a thorough cultural transformation beneath it all, we are doomed to rubbish the planet over.

thankfully, we also create culture at home, in our everyday actions, performed for an audience of bright young activists. ethics imprint at the table, spreading through neighbourhoods, requested at the library, selected at the shops, told in stories and in pictures, reflected in politics, becoming a movement.

just here, it shows up in the humble pear, picked with gratitude from a century-old tree. each pear is gently pressed at its stem for ripeness, plucked from its firmer companions to be bottled or sauced. peels and cores collect in another pot to boil a delicate juice, yielding pale luminous jelly, or mixing with an overripe pear for its wild yeasts, to ferment beneath an airlock into a primitive wine, then a vinegar. the pear butter cooks down thickly, and after jars upon jars of it are sealed we then marry the next round of pears to early russian apples, with last year’s cider-turned-fine vinegar for its acid, preserving qualities. the last scoopfuls are scraped out as if they are gold leaf over parchment, set in the cooling oven or the solar drier to turn to brittle leather. scraps go to the hens, to compost.

my father lived these principles in renovating our house, slowly taking apart the old, reclaiming the materials. my hands still recall extracting each nail. that thrift was a pleasure, an ethic of respect. i tell you, we wept to see the house next door flattened without so much as saving a doorknob. i still feel nauseous at that brazen wastefulness, a belief made manifest that time is money.

we culture life in daily acts, from garden to kitchen to workplace. ethics are expressed in the end.

the journal of small work is coming to our channel, join the list above.

appleturnover

•

with my generation, thrift, that deep respect for the material, disappeared from the dominant culture. i only caught hold of its tail through the everyday expressions of immigrant elders who knew wartime and depression too well.

this ethic is reviving in response to the destructive logic of an economical model of growth, extraction and obsolescence, made visible, visceral. but without a thorough cultural transformation beneath it all, we are doomed to rubbish the planet over.

thankfully, we also create culture at home, in our everyday actions, performed for an audience of bright young activists. ethics imprint at the table, spreading through neighbourhoods, requested at the library, selected at the shops, told in stories and in pictures, reflected in politics, becoming a movement.

just here, it shows up in the humble pear, picked with gratitude from a century-old tree. each pear is gently pressed at its stem for ripeness, plucked from its firmer companions to be bottled or sauced. peels and cores collect in another pot to boil a delicate juice, yielding pale luminous jelly, or mixing with an overripe pear for its wild yeasts, to ferment beneath an airlock into a primitive wine, then a vinegar. the pear butter cooks down thickly, and after jars upon jars of it are sealed we then marry the next round of pears to early russian apples, with last year’s cider-turned-fine vinegar for its acid, preserving qualities. the last scoopfuls are scraped out as if they are gold leaf over parchment, set in the cooling oven or the solar drier to turn to brittle leather. scraps go to the hens, to compost.

my father lived these principles in renovating our house, slowly taking apart the old, reclaiming the materials. my hands still recall extracting each nail. that thrift was a pleasure, an ethic of respect. i tell you, we wept to see the house next door flattened without so much as saving a doorknob. i still feel nauseous at that brazen wastefulness, a belief made manifest that time is money.

we culture life in daily acts, from garden to kitchen to workplace. ethics are expressed in the end.

the journal of small work is coming to our channel, join the list above.

4 weeks ago

View on Instagram |

7/12

good equinox to you, from appleturnover.

appleturnover

•

good equinox to you, from appleturnover.

4 weeks ago

View on Instagram |

8/12

the old pear tree stands in opposition to our dominant ideas of what growing food must look like. all by itself, it feeds those who live here more than they could ever eat, year after year.

its abundance affirms community, exchange, as we send pears out into the hands of others. there are so many helping hands to thank.

being a fleeting summer pear, not a winter storing pear, it ripens quickly, its only demand is that we act now. as the pears come in, hefting crates, boxes, market baskets, bags and finally anything you can lay your hands on to carry them, they cover every surface. this year there were so many we couldn’t photograph them all at once and hurried to preserve them.

pear butter, pear jelly, pear cheese, pear leather, pear wine, pear brandy, pear vinegar, pear chutney. bottled pears, dried pears. pears into cakes, over porridge, on pancakes, toast. pear on the side, pear as a snack. and what e l s e can we make with pears? intense creativity is an appropriate response.

there’s no need to extract, to exploit. the tree needs almost nothing at all, a light pruning. some mulch. with roots growing so deeply in relationship to the orchard, decades of microbial communities carrying on making more life, well. we need only be mindful not to interfere, to be good partners with this robust being. we need only give thanks.

it’s a way of being so counter to the dominant vision of industrial extraction which takes too much and never gives back. yet we could accept the perennially kind offerings, do the work of planting more trees, give this sort of future to our children. it’s the best sort of work there is. the trees want us to do it. everyone thrives.

it’s no coincidence that we draw, paint, print, photograph trees. that planting a tree feels like an ancient ritual. that propagating new trees is a pleasure that, once experienced, is anticipated like a child longs for a birthday. in dormancy we make new life. to watch a tree grow is as much meaning as i ever required.

we can shift our vision of what is and what can be. then we can see clearly how we might live in a way that makes more life.

watch our films on simple living at appleturnover.tv.

the old pear tree stands in opposition to our dominant ideas of what growing food must look like. all by itself, it feeds those who live here more than they could ever eat, year after year.

its abundance affirms community, exchange, as we send pears out into the hands of others. there are so many helping hands to thank.

being a fleeting summer pear, not a winter storing pear, it ripens quickly, its only demand is that we act now. as the pears come in, hefting crates, boxes, market baskets, bags and finally anything you can lay your hands on to carry them, they cover every surface. this year there were so many we couldn’t photograph them all at once and hurried to preserve them.

pear butter, pear jelly, pear cheese, pear leather, pear wine, pear brandy, pear vinegar, pear chutney. bottled pears, dried pears. pears into cakes, over porridge, on pancakes, toast. pear on the side, pear as a snack. and what e l s e can we make with pears? intense creativity is an appropriate response.

there’s no need to extract, to exploit. the tree needs almost nothing at all, a light pruning. some mulch. with roots growing so deeply in relationship to the orchard, decades of microbial communities carrying on making more life, well. we need only be mindful not to interfere, to be good partners with this robust being. we need only give thanks.

it’s a way of being so counter to the dominant vision of industrial extraction which takes too much and never gives back. yet we could accept the perennially kind offerings, do the work of planting more trees, give this sort of future to our children. it’s the best sort of work there is. the trees want us to do it. everyone thrives.

it’s no coincidence that we draw, paint, print, photograph trees. that planting a tree feels like an ancient ritual. that propagating new trees is a pleasure that, once experienced, is anticipated like a child longs for a birthday. in dormancy we make new life. to watch a tree grow is as much meaning as i ever required.

we can shift our vision of what is and what can be. then we can see clearly how we might live in a way that makes more life.

watch our films on simple living at appleturnover.tv.

the old pear tree stands in opposition to our dominant ideas of what growing food must look like. all by itself, it feeds those who live here more than they could ever eat, year after year.

its abundance affirms community, exchange, as we send pears out into the hands of others. there are so many helping hands to thank.

being a fleeting summer pear, not a winter storing pear, it ripens quickly, its only demand is that we act now. as the pears come in, hefting crates, boxes, market baskets, bags and finally anything you can lay your hands on to carry them, they cover every surface. this year there were so many we couldn’t photograph them all at once and hurried to preserve them.

pear butter, pear jelly, pear cheese, pear leather, pear wine, pear brandy, pear vinegar, pear chutney. bottled pears, dried pears. pears into cakes, over porridge, on pancakes, toast. pear on the side, pear as a snack. and what e l s e can we make with pears? intense creativity is an appropriate response.

there’s no need to extract, to exploit. the tree needs almost nothing at all, a light pruning. some mulch. with roots growing so deeply in relationship to the orchard, decades of microbial communities carrying on making more life, well. we need only be mindful not to interfere, to be good partners with this robust being. we need only give thanks.

it’s a way of being so counter to the dominant vision of industrial extraction which takes too much and never gives back. yet we could accept the perennially kind offerings, do the work of planting more trees, give this sort of future to our children. it’s the best sort of work there is. the trees want us to do it. everyone thrives.

it’s no coincidence that we draw, paint, print, photograph trees. that planting a tree feels like an ancient ritual. that propagating new trees is a pleasure that, once experienced, is anticipated like a child longs for a birthday. in dormancy we make new life. to watch a tree grow is as much meaning as i ever required.

we can shift our vision of what is and what can be. then we can see clearly how we might live in a way that makes more life.

watch our films on simple living at appleturnover.tv.

the old pear tree stands in opposition to our dominant ideas of what growing food must look like. all by itself, it feeds those who live here more than they could ever eat, year after year.

its abundance affirms community, exchange, as we send pears out into the hands of others. there are so many helping hands to thank.

being a fleeting summer pear, not a winter storing pear, it ripens quickly, its only demand is that we act now. as the pears come in, hefting crates, boxes, market baskets, bags and finally anything you can lay your hands on to carry them, they cover every surface. this year there were so many we couldn’t photograph them all at once and hurried to preserve them.

pear butter, pear jelly, pear cheese, pear leather, pear wine, pear brandy, pear vinegar, pear chutney. bottled pears, dried pears. pears into cakes, over porridge, on pancakes, toast. pear on the side, pear as a snack. and what e l s e can we make with pears? intense creativity is an appropriate response.

there’s no need to extract, to exploit. the tree needs almost nothing at all, a light pruning. some mulch. with roots growing so deeply in relationship to the orchard, decades of microbial communities carrying on making more life, well. we need only be mindful not to interfere, to be good partners with this robust being. we need only give thanks.

it’s a way of being so counter to the dominant vision of industrial extraction which takes too much and never gives back. yet we could accept the perennially kind offerings, do the work of planting more trees, give this sort of future to our children. it’s the best sort of work there is. the trees want us to do it. everyone thrives.

it’s no coincidence that we draw, paint, print, photograph trees. that planting a tree feels like an ancient ritual. that propagating new trees is a pleasure that, once experienced, is anticipated like a child longs for a birthday. in dormancy we make new life. to watch a tree grow is as much meaning as i ever required.

we can shift our vision of what is and what can be. then we can see clearly how we might live in a way that makes more life.

watch our films on simple living at appleturnover.tv.

appleturnover

•

the old pear tree stands in opposition to our dominant ideas of what growing food must look like. all by itself, it feeds those who live here more than they could ever eat, year after year.

its abundance affirms community, exchange, as we send pears out into the hands of others. there are so many helping hands to thank.

being a fleeting summer pear, not a winter storing pear, it ripens quickly, its only demand is that we act now. as the pears come in, hefting crates, boxes, market baskets, bags and finally anything you can lay your hands on to carry them, they cover every surface. this year there were so many we couldn’t photograph them all at once and hurried to preserve them.

pear butter, pear jelly, pear cheese, pear leather, pear wine, pear brandy, pear vinegar, pear chutney. bottled pears, dried pears. pears into cakes, over porridge, on pancakes, toast. pear on the side, pear as a snack. and what e l s e can we make with pears? intense creativity is an appropriate response.

there’s no need to extract, to exploit. the tree needs almost nothing at all, a light pruning. some mulch. with roots growing so deeply in relationship to the orchard, decades of microbial communities carrying on making more life, well. we need only be mindful not to interfere, to be good partners with this robust being. we need only give thanks.

it’s a way of being so counter to the dominant vision of industrial extraction which takes too much and never gives back. yet we could accept the perennially kind offerings, do the work of planting more trees, give this sort of future to our children. it’s the best sort of work there is. the trees want us to do it. everyone thrives.

it’s no coincidence that we draw, paint, print, photograph trees. that planting a tree feels like an ancient ritual. that propagating new trees is a pleasure that, once experienced, is anticipated like a child longs for a birthday. in dormancy we make new life. to watch a tree grow is as much meaning as i ever required.

we can shift our vision of what is and what can be. then we can see clearly how we might live in a way that makes more life.

watch our films on simple living at appleturnover.tv.

4 weeks ago

View on Instagram |

9/12

the pantry is one model of simple living that quietly reconciles the greatest threats to our ecological stability. it does so with style and grace, effortlessly countering our worst environmental offenses with a combination of good old fashioned kitchen skills, local knowledge, and plain and simple efficient design.

like the undercroft, the root cellar, the four-season garden, the pantry offers food storage without need of constant electricity, refrigerants, or breakable machines. it trades a long stream of refrigerated trucks for the simple act of preserving what’s in season on the spot and keeping it dry and cool enough to last all year. it trades shopping for time in the kitchen. it trades plastic packaging for reusable forms like the potato sack, the canning jar, the fermenting crock. it trades preservatives and freezing for traditional preservation at its best, jams, jellies, butters, salts, vinegars, oils, infusions, tinctures, tipples, dried goods, cured goods, fermentations.

it pairs beautifully with growing a vegetable garden, tending to fruit and nut trees, foraging, forming relationships with farmers to put away the harvests in season, swapping with neighbours, yes, in a word, community.

its inherent resilience is as powerful as the ills it remedies. the skills of preserving in all its forms naturally lead to basic skills of avoiding food waste, next in line to refrigerants as a massive contributor to climate emergency.

aligned with practices like supporting small farms in a local economy, eating more plants, choosing regenerative farming methods that sink carbon, nourish soil and store water, the pantry addresses several climate offending practices with ease.

the pantry requires skill, knowledge, the time to practice them, yes. for this too, we need each other more. yet storing away food is also primal, gratifying stuff. we find that food from the pantry is at once nutrient dense and flavourful. that slow food becomes decidedly convenient once the harvests are in. that a full pantry is its own reward.

farmhouse pantry film is coming, get on the list to hear when it’s on appleturnover.tv.

read more on the subject in @folklifemedia vol II.

appleturnover

•

the pantry is one model of simple living that quietly reconciles the greatest threats to our ecological stability. it does so with style and grace, effortlessly countering our worst environmental offenses with a combination of good old fashioned kitchen skills, local knowledge, and plain and simple efficient design.

like the undercroft, the root cellar, the four-season garden, the pantry offers food storage without need of constant electricity, refrigerants, or breakable machines. it trades a long stream of refrigerated trucks for the simple act of preserving what’s in season on the spot and keeping it dry and cool enough to last all year. it trades shopping for time in the kitchen. it trades plastic packaging for reusable forms like the potato sack, the canning jar, the fermenting crock. it trades preservatives and freezing for traditional preservation at its best, jams, jellies, butters, salts, vinegars, oils, infusions, tinctures, tipples, dried goods, cured goods, fermentations.

it pairs beautifully with growing a vegetable garden, tending to fruit and nut trees, foraging, forming relationships with farmers to put away the harvests in season, swapping with neighbours, yes, in a word, community.

its inherent resilience is as powerful as the ills it remedies. the skills of preserving in all its forms naturally lead to basic skills of avoiding food waste, next in line to refrigerants as a massive contributor to climate emergency.

aligned with practices like supporting small farms in a local economy, eating more plants, choosing regenerative farming methods that sink carbon, nourish soil and store water, the pantry addresses several climate offending practices with ease.

the pantry requires skill, knowledge, the time to practice them, yes. for this too, we need each other more. yet storing away food is also primal, gratifying stuff. we find that food from the pantry is at once nutrient dense and flavourful. that slow food becomes decidedly convenient once the harvests are in. that a full pantry is its own reward.

farmhouse pantry film is coming, get on the list to hear when it’s on appleturnover.tv.

read more on the subject in @folklifemedia vol II.

1 month ago

View on Instagram |

10/12

the downpours arrive as the equinox approaches, they’ve taken the hardest garden work off our hands. all we need do is harvest between rainstorms. i’m so grateful.

growing even a little of our food is no small act. like so many small shifts, it holds the seed of climate activism and a transformation of the dominating paradigm we’ve been living with into a life-affirming, regenerative state.

as the harvests peak and wane, i’m filming the new series about continuous, incremental, compounding actions that can shift us toward the world we want to see. the journal of small work is coming. get on the list above and watch all our short films at appleturnover.tv.

appleturnover

•

the downpours arrive as the equinox approaches, they’ve taken the hardest garden work off our hands. all we need do is harvest between rainstorms. i’m so grateful.

growing even a little of our food is no small act. like so many small shifts, it holds the seed of climate activism and a transformation of the dominating paradigm we’ve been living with into a life-affirming, regenerative state.

as the harvests peak and wane, i’m filming the new series about continuous, incremental, compounding actions that can shift us toward the world we want to see. the journal of small work is coming. get on the list above and watch all our short films at appleturnover.tv.

1 month ago

View on Instagram |

11/12

we can’t do it all, all by ourselves, but luckily we needn’t kill ourselves trying. at the autumn equinox the farmhouse pantry and root cellar and freezer begin to pop with a great diversity of preserves, many by way of our local farms.

while over here we’re reckoning with an overwhelming abundance of pears on the tail of a mad crazy plum crop, we never do grow enough cucumbers. we’re happy to support a local regenerative farmer at the farmer’s market to fill our jars.

it’s the work of a moment to submerge cucumbers in brine with garlic from our garden, the neighbour’s dill and a leaf from the grapevine that hangs outside the kitchen door.

each autumn a no-dig farm in the valley brings us sacks of parsnips, carrots and beets to store damp in the root cellar. when the garden’s too frozen for pulling the roots below the mulch, we’ll nip down the root cellar steps and gather what we need for the cook pot.

we did rather well with our own potatoes and we grew enough garlic, but though we long to grow all the squash, all the greens, all the tomatoes, self-sufficiency isn’t actually the model we’re pursuing.

even when the olive trees are producing, the pecans, chestnuts and almond are old enough to crop, even if we get skilled at citrus-growing, this isn’t all or nothing. we’re part of a community that grows more resilient for the exchanges between us.

not everyone aspires to grow their own pickling cucumbers, but diversity within people and skills makes us more resilient too.

fermenting pickles in our own jars year on year makes me very content. it also makes us healthier and wealthier, often in ways that cannot be reduced to saving a dollar on the cheapest import. we know that buying local circulates benefits around the community, supporting villagers, sustaining family businesses, multiplying positive benefits as it goes. we’re stronger for the web of interconnections.

seeing how we rely on each other also just helps us get some perspective. we never could do it all, we never will, it’s okay. we can help to grow a partnership culture that bonds reciprocally with our community, echoing the greater living systems we’re embedded within.

we can’t do it all, all by ourselves, but luckily we needn’t kill ourselves trying. at the autumn equinox the farmhouse pantry and root cellar and freezer begin to pop with a great diversity of preserves, many by way of our local farms.

while over here we’re reckoning with an overwhelming abundance of pears on the tail of a mad crazy plum crop, we never do grow enough cucumbers. we’re happy to support a local regenerative farmer at the farmer’s market to fill our jars.

it’s the work of a moment to submerge cucumbers in brine with garlic from our garden, the neighbour’s dill and a leaf from the grapevine that hangs outside the kitchen door.

each autumn a no-dig farm in the valley brings us sacks of parsnips, carrots and beets to store damp in the root cellar. when the garden’s too frozen for pulling the roots below the mulch, we’ll nip down the root cellar steps and gather what we need for the cook pot.

we did rather well with our own potatoes and we grew enough garlic, but though we long to grow all the squash, all the greens, all the tomatoes, self-sufficiency isn’t actually the model we’re pursuing.

even when the olive trees are producing, the pecans, chestnuts and almond are old enough to crop, even if we get skilled at citrus-growing, this isn’t all or nothing. we’re part of a community that grows more resilient for the exchanges between us.

not everyone aspires to grow their own pickling cucumbers, but diversity within people and skills makes us more resilient too.

fermenting pickles in our own jars year on year makes me very content. it also makes us healthier and wealthier, often in ways that cannot be reduced to saving a dollar on the cheapest import. we know that buying local circulates benefits around the community, supporting villagers, sustaining family businesses, multiplying positive benefits as it goes. we’re stronger for the web of interconnections.

seeing how we rely on each other also just helps us get some perspective. we never could do it all, we never will, it’s okay. we can help to grow a partnership culture that bonds reciprocally with our community, echoing the greater living systems we’re embedded within.

appleturnover

•

we can’t do it all, all by ourselves, but luckily we needn’t kill ourselves trying. at the autumn equinox the farmhouse pantry and root cellar and freezer begin to pop with a great diversity of preserves, many by way of our local farms.

while over here we’re reckoning with an overwhelming abundance of pears on the tail of a mad crazy plum crop, we never do grow enough cucumbers. we’re happy to support a local regenerative farmer at the farmer’s market to fill our jars.

it’s the work of a moment to submerge cucumbers in brine with garlic from our garden, the neighbour’s dill and a leaf from the grapevine that hangs outside the kitchen door.

each autumn a no-dig farm in the valley brings us sacks of parsnips, carrots and beets to store damp in the root cellar. when the garden’s too frozen for pulling the roots below the mulch, we’ll nip down the root cellar steps and gather what we need for the cook pot.

we did rather well with our own potatoes and we grew enough garlic, but though we long to grow all the squash, all the greens, all the tomatoes, self-sufficiency isn’t actually the model we’re pursuing.

even when the olive trees are producing, the pecans, chestnuts and almond are old enough to crop, even if we get skilled at citrus-growing, this isn’t all or nothing. we’re part of a community that grows more resilient for the exchanges between us.

not everyone aspires to grow their own pickling cucumbers, but diversity within people and skills makes us more resilient too.

fermenting pickles in our own jars year on year makes me very content. it also makes us healthier and wealthier, often in ways that cannot be reduced to saving a dollar on the cheapest import. we know that buying local circulates benefits around the community, supporting villagers, sustaining family businesses, multiplying positive benefits as it goes. we’re stronger for the web of interconnections.

seeing how we rely on each other also just helps us get some perspective. we never could do it all, we never will, it’s okay. we can help to grow a partnership culture that bonds reciprocally with our community, echoing the greater living systems we’re embedded within.

1 month ago

View on Instagram |

12/12

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