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there is a pleasure in economy, in efficiency, in simplicity. in satisfying a need using only what is absolutely required and nothing more. it counters the excesses of mass consumption, it offers hope in a time of necessary degrowth. we see it in elegant design, poetic language, minimalism. i see it in the bicycle. i like that a bicycle distills the requirements for efficient movement to its simplest parts. if walking won’t meet the need, cycling can take care of much of the rest. the electric bicycle is not cheating at cycling, which, curiously, is a comment our carless family used to hear before ebikes became ubiquitous. in fact, an electric bicycle provides services that a car can only achieve with a massive waste of weight and fuel. the electric bicycle can, in so many cases, replace the car, quite elegantly. appropriate technology. take for example this particular errand, a 13 kilometer round journey which happened to include a 70 meter rise and 51 meter drop, with a 16% grade somewhere along it. were i a fit young lass and not in my middling 40s, were it not also a heat wave demanding a daily jump in the lake in the opposite direction, and were i not also needed to pick and preserve hundreds of plums i might simply cycle with the plainest of bikes. but here is where the electric bicycle shines. it extends my reach. it smooths the hills, assisting enough to allow my daily life to focus not on cycling but on all the rest. oh, i still needed a nap. but as anti-aging tactics go, the electric bike pulls me back from midlife crisis to a glimpse of my energetic youth. very effective. it was our thoroughly brilliant, decidedly overqualified high school art teacher who first spoke to us ardently of an economy of line, or of materials. economy has enthralled me ever since. this is helpful, as seeing that we must urgently embrace the simplification of our lives for our survival, we might find pleasure in the refinement. if you haven’t watched our short film, ‘bicycle life’ you can find it above, and get on the list to hear about my new series on just this sort of pleasing everyday activism.

2 days ago

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a plum tree, even in a tiny garden, can produce such abundance as to be utterly overwhelming. what to do with all these plums? first, we give boxes to friends and family, sending them along with folks travelling to dear ones in the city. the chef turns plenty into glamorous pastry. helpful friends stop by for more. we slice the firmer plums to freeze in reused containers squirrelled away for just such a bounty, throw clingstone middles into a pot to boil along with the juiciest side-splittingly ripe plums, filling the great stockpot to the brim. next we’ll draw off plum juice through a colander, reduce some to a cordial, and push out the pulp with a wooden spoon for plum jam. adding spices makes a savoury sauce. we’ll cut up the firmer plums for a chutney. in another year we’ll make plum country wine, but now we submerge the whole fruit in vodka for a fine tipple. we’re not fond of this variety dried, but the wild plums came out of the solar drier tasting like raisins only wish they could. then still more plums will linger in the fridge to be eaten, chilled, between swims at the lake, where it doesn’t matter how much plum you wear. our floors are sticky already. pips and skins flavour a vinegar or the hens and ducks and geese might like to pick them over, they’re in charge of windfalls. the goats love plums too, so we graze them near the tree to have a few treats. and then the compost that feeds our garden soils will turn any last dregs into rich new life. we’ll swap these goods with neighbours and mates, and the pantry shelf abundance will grow richly diverse for the community exchange. the ability to respond when one has too little is critical, and so too, when one has too much. the latter is the primary problem of our agricultural system in this moment, and taking responsibility for reinventing it could tend to a staggering percentage of our emissions. we can respond to ever so much right here at home. i’m working on a new film, ‘farmhouse pantry’. get on the mailing list above to hear more.

3 days ago

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a late-morning habit of mine is to pause a moment to greet the broody hen in the chickhouse as the little herd of goats walk with me to the cooler, lush lowlands. this particular morning on opening the tiny door, a great surprise met me. our own young ones came flying out of the farmhouse at my message, to make introductions. these two pretty creatures are particularly fascinating to us, being the grandchildren of one matriarch, robin, who lays blue eggs, crossed with dear henry orpington who is the child of another matriarch, dear pepper orpington, daughter of olive, who lays green eggs, now crossed with ruby rooster, a fellow from a new line of orpington we brought in to strengthen through greater diversity. well, they are strong, beautiful, friendly little ones and we are fascinated to see how they grow up and what colour they will lay! new life is pure joy and tenderness. when we also bring home the capacity to meet our own needs, adapted to this place, whether in seeds for plants that thrive in the face of our heavy droughts and our heavy rains alike, or cultures that taste of this particular point on the earth, or animals that take this specific climate in their stride, we are all more resilient for it. in the specificities there’s great pleasure. we become embedded within the land, the food, the soil, the climate, the weather. the connections become inextricably linked and our fondness grows deep. welcome, little chicks. if you missed our new short film, ‘broody hen’ you can find it linked above.

4 days ago

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when we preserve the abundance from the hedgerows and the thickets, the neighbourhood’s edges and the furthest corners of our back gardens, it cultivates a different sort of culture. suddenly, the gift economy is in motion, and its strength is in its diversity and multiplicity. through the connections and attachments of the non-monetary economy, the twenty-two jars of plum jam will flow in a different currency. all the folks who brought us hay or chicken feed when they were over at the feed & tack, or helped prune the winter orchard when i was ill, or that texted from the grocery store, do you need anything? or just gave generously of friendship and support, or needed it, well. like duck and hen eggs, bamboo stakes, grapes, apple cider or any abundance that this little farm produces, the plum jam will be gifted and swapped, til it evolves not only into a variety of other preserves on the shelf made by dear friends and family, but all the sorts of invisible exchanges in the sharing economy that creat community. i’m working on our new film, ‘farmhouse pantry’. join our patrons to propose your questions for it, above.

6 days ago

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our broody hen takes an afternoon break from sitting, to dustbathe and take a turn round the garden. one more week til we see what our easter egger-orpington cross eggs bear. have you watched our new short film ‘broody hen’ on appleturnover.tv? find it above.

7 days ago

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a storybook quality underlies so many of the steps we’ve taken towards a regenerative life. hens in the orchard, ducks in the pond, geese in the meadows, goats in the barn. children picking plums, preserving jams and jellies, setting them in the pantry. knitting on the needles, bread in the oven, kettle on the wood stove, bicycles in the lane. patches on the elbows, mending in the basket, washing on the line. i suppose it’s no accident that our childrens’ songs and stories are so preoccupied with simple living. simple food is central to this. how easy it is to dismiss as sentimental an attachment to the farm animals, the gardens, the wilder creatures that we tell so many stories about, make so many images of. within them is the kernel of what we really need. like a wildfire burning the forest plantations and uncovering, reviving ancient seeds to grow back in their place, we still have some connection to how things once functioned in harmony. we still have models for how to live reciprocally. despite a wholesale dependence on fossil fuels in the culture i grew up in, there are pre-industrial remnants that many people have grasped hold of. many cultures never had the access to oil and never lost the skills, the knowledge, that we must rebuild. in transforming our agriculture from the dominant industrial model, in recognising its utter failure to give us life sustaining food - never mind its damage to soil health, water cycle, biodiversity, atmosphere, climate - we can look to the past, to other cultures, to the patterns of nature. we always did feed ourselves, before industrialism taught us to buy into it. we can do it again. i think that our songs and storybooks show our longing for the kitchen garden, the orchard, the hedgerow, food forest, the small local farm. we can do this.

7 days ago

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the way of life, the skills to match the production of the old orchard are reviving in us, and with them, the seeds of climate action. the ability to avoid food waste. it’s an appalling situation when a food system produces greenhouse gases rivalling all other sources, first in production and again in wasting that produce, not only before it ever reaches our kitchens, but within them. household food waste is something we can change with our own hands. the plum illustrates. efficient, respectful use of food looks like taking the time to harvest, if we’re so lucky to have trees on the land we live on or growing in public spaces. to have a ladder or, say, a bamboo pole to reach high into the boughs and gently shake til the plums rain down, caught by festoons of old bedlinens. to have trugs and pails enough to hold them all. to live a life simple enough that we have the time to take action! it looks like developing the skills, to pip and dry the plums, or bottle them, cook them into sauce or butter, boil the trimmings for jelly or ferment them into vinegar. drown them in booze, that’s easy. then to share, swap, barter, trade. to look forward to those preserves, provided in advance, in the slower, shorter days of winter. to have the skills required to use, not waste this gift of food. food that did not have need of petrochemicals, nor spraying, nor monocropping, not unjust labour, nor grading, nor refrigeration, nor packaging, nor trucking, nor to sit in a shop waiting to be bought or thrown away to release methane in a landfill. the ugliest plums and the prettiest are all appreciated. even the windfalls go to the chickens, ducks, geese, goats, honeybees, and feed the earth around the tree, mixed with the carbon mulch of leaves and twigs. we’ll compost fruit scraps after they’ve infused vinegar, making new soil. we still have the skills, in certain communities and amongst elders who never stopped, in books, in stories, to reverse this situation. we can recognise the simple power of domestic actions and take them up again. find our latest short films chronicling steps to sustainable living, linked above.

1 week ago

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we’re celebrating a whole year of short films! ‘deep litter’ (for healthy chickens and rich compost) turns one today and ‘broody hen’ (raising chicks with a mother hen) just joined the mix. next, i’m working on a new series about small, slow, simple, continuous actions to learn to live regeneratively. get on the mailing list to hear when the first one’s out! you can find all of our tiny films on our channel, above. and you can become a $5 patron to propose ideas and questions to be answered in the films! do you have a favourite?

1 week ago

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i fell for gardening edibles, when first i began to love growing. there’s plenty to eat for our family and friends and the creatures we tend to, following the agrarian calendar year-round sees to that. increasingly we add perennial or self-sowing polycultures. lately, feeding the wilder creatures who arrive on the air, appear in the soil, clamber over the fence, that’s the work i want to do more of. it feels particularly critical, as our gardens can offer solace, protection, a counterpoint to an overwhelming monoculture, especially if we all of us become gardeners for biodiversity in some way. and the pleasures of witnessing the contented presence of other creatures living here revives a sense of connection we’ve been wanting.

2 weeks ago

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the whole idea that we’ve been overheating our planet and really need to keep it cool lends itself to some simple solutions. the ducks will illustrate. as a flock they demonstrate the temperature like a finely tuned thermometer, tucking up snugly in the sunniest spot for a winter’s nap, spreading out in a ring in the shadiest spot for a summer one. the long grasses cool the soil, and cool the ducks too. the trees give cover and retain water deep in the soil. the ducks will not step on the asphalt driveway at all if they can avoid it, in the heat or the cold it is too extreme. they’ll splash in the pond and play around the water bucket, staying hydrated, slowing down. mornings are for the busy work of foraging, but then napping is a priority in the heat of the day. if it gets truly hot today we’ll see them lift their wings as if dressing a little more lightly. they eat less on the hot days, much more on the cold ones, using the heat of digestion to warm themselves. how can we help the planet keep cool? we’re trying a few things. we can get around on our own two feet more, and by bicycle. we can cool our homes with well-placed plantings, shutting windows, drawing blinds in the heat of the day. we can cover the earth with plants and mulches that stabilise temperature. let the grasses and wildflowers grow. we can use our clothing functionally, layering to warm or cool our bodies, first, before the room. we can eat according to the season, choose local options, grow some food, cook from scratch. we can line-dry. we can remove pavings to steady temperatures, restore soils, sink water. we can collect rainwater, greywater, revere it as a precious substance. we can choose the simplest solutions to our needs, drawing first on natural local materials that needn’t travel far, that support local economies. we can shift our choices to avoid plastics in the bathroom, kitchen, garden, closet. we can lower energy use in our gardens and homes, fossil fueled and otherwise. we can slow down, use less, need less. i’m working on a new series about smallscale actions in regenerative living. did you catch our latest film?

2 weeks ago

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in any year, the harvests from one source may utterly eclipse that of another. some years are apple years, others are plummy, like this one. last year’s drizzly summer was just fine for cool greens, this years’ blistering heat pleased the tomatoes, grapes and squash. we don’t fret, as with great diversity there’s always some plant that loves the conditions. learning to preserve large gluts is a great skill, but learning to preserve small harvests has its own charm. the cherries suffered a little this year, between raccoons and robins, soggy rain at the wrong moment and scorching heat seemed only to finish them off too early. mostly the ants took over. our cherry trees were much in need of a strong pruning, after some years of slow renovations, so we focused our energy on ladders and pocket saws. after all that, quick methods of preserving at the end of a hot, tired day are just what we need. after pipping a few cherries onto drying trays bound for the solar dehydrator, pipping still more into old nut butter jars for the freezer, the easiest preserve of all is simply to drown the whole cherries in vodka, and set them in the pantry for a few months of infusion. it will make a glorious tipple on a chilly winter’s evening. i reserve my finnish grandmother’s vintage canning jars for this, with their glass lids and zinc bands, now too delicate to risk hot preserves. it’s a snap to preserve in booze and our future selves thank us most ardently. cherry liqueur, a small jar of our first black currants, and the blossoms from a young little elderflower tree are already lined up in the farmhouse pantry. they may be tiny yields but they’re concentrated into the richest flavour of this fleeting moment. speaking of small harvests, our broody hen hatched out three sweet little chicks. have you seen our brand new film about working with mother hens? find it above.

2 weeks ago

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the flock of chickens here is a family in a way that has all but disappeared from the way most agriculture is practiced. they raised each other. ever since the two elders, robin easter egger and pepper orpington, hatched out in an incubator years ago, and with the exception of a few next door neighbour hens who moved in with us (and one of them is setting on eggs right now) this flock is generation upon generation of parents and children. the broody hen is legendary, mostly as an annoyance, an irritant in the pursuit of intense egg-laying. she’ll sit doggedly for weeks upon weeks, not laying, and many of her kind are hot-tempered and will peck inquiring visitors. but like so many ways of being, this is only a problem because we make it so. oh, there are definitely devoted mothers and distracted ones. once, two mama hens were raising chicks at the same time, and one adopted out her chicks to the other and went back to laying early. once, when we didn’t have a rooster, one of the other hens volunteered to co-parent. once, instead of weaning at seven weeks, a mama was fully involved in parenting her pullets and cockerels til they were fully three months old. when we act in service of how the chicken mothers her own young, it’s right for everyone. these mothers know best. we do well to recognise when we are out of our depth. life’s systems have intelligence we cannot hope to wholly know, and instead we can cultivate a humble respect for all life, serving within its patterns. this is more and more our role. we hope you love our new little film, ‘broody hen.’ watch it on our channel, above.

2 weeks ago

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