Old Crow Farm

07/27/2026

07/26/2026

There is a special kind of satisfaction that begins months before the first tomato ever blushes red. It starts with tiny seeds tucked into trays in the greenhouse, where warmth, light, and a little faith coax life from something no bigger than a freckle. Each morning, I wandered among the seedlings, watching them stretch toward the sun, already imagining summer meals they would someday become.

When the danger of frost had passed, those fragile little plants found their home in the garden. Day by day, they grew stronger. We watered them through dry spells, tied up heavy vines, pulled weeds that dared compete, and celebrated each tiny yellow blossom that promised another tomato. The garden became more than rows of plants—it became a reminder that good things rarely happen overnight.

By July, the baskets grew heavier with every trip down the rows. Golden heirlooms, bright red slicers, and handfuls of sweet cherry tomatoes filled the harvest. Their warm skins carried the scent of sunshine and rich Alabama soil. Every tomato held the memory of the hands that planted, tended, and patiently waited.

Then came my favorite part—the kitchen. My husband and I worked side by side, washing, peeling, chopping, stirring, and laughing as the countertops disappeared beneath mountains of tomatoes. The air filled with the familiar aroma of onions, peppers, garlic, cilantro, and spices. Jar after jar lined the counter until twenty pints of salsa stood cooling beneath clean lids, each one sealing with a satisfying pop.

Some people see twenty jars of salsa. I see months of hope made tangible. I see seeds that became plants, plants that became harvest, and harvest that became something we can share with family and friends long after the garden has gone quiet. The reward isn’t just what fills the pantry. It’s knowing that every single jar began with two people willing to plant a tiny seed and trust the season to do the rest.

🍅🧅🫑🌶️🧄

07/17/2026

“Nothing Wasted”

I was blessed to grow up with three grandmothers, each of them shaped by the hard years of the Great Depression. They came from a generation that believed waste was nearly a sin. They had learned that a little flour could become biscuits, yesterday’s vegetables could become soup, and a meal was never measured by how much money was spent but by how well you cared for what God had already provided.

None of them would have called it sustainability or resourcefulness. Around our part of Alabama, it was simply called making do.

They taught me that thriftiness is more than pinching pennies. It is an attitude. It is looking past what something isn’t and seeing what it still can become. A bruised tomato becomes gravy. Stale bread becomes dressing. A handful of leftovers becomes tomorrow’s supper. Nothing was wasted because everything had value if you were willing to think a little harder and cook with a little more love.

Without realizing it, those women planted that same way of thinking in me.

To this day, before I ever think about driving to the grocery store, I open my refrigerator and pantry doors like I’m searching for hidden treasure. I stand there for a minute, studying shelves and drawers, wondering what story those ingredients want to tell together. Some of my favorite meals have never come from a cookbook. They’ve come from necessity, memory, and a little imagination.

Scott laughs when he watches me cook that way. He’ll lean against the kitchen counter, watching vegetables disappear beneath my knife while something sizzles in a cast-iron skillet.

“You’d better write this one down,” he’ll say.

I always smile and answer the same way.

“I’ll remember.”

The truth is, I usually remember the ingredients, but not the measurements. I cook the way my grandmothers did—with handfuls, pinches, splashes, and instinct. They never reached for measuring cups, and somewhere along the way, neither did I.

One afternoon, the refrigerator offered up what most people might have overlooked: a package of Conecuh sausage, a bag of Arborio rice, a bottle of dry white wine tucked behind the milk, and a carton of chicken stock. In the garden, sweet banana peppers were producing faster than I could pick them. A few stalks of celery in the produce drawer were just one day away from the compost pile, and there were always Vidalia onions waiting patiently in the pantry.

Some folks might have seen odds and ends.

I saw supper.

As the sausage browned, its smoky aroma filled the kitchen. The onions softened into sweetness while the celery and banana peppers surrendered their crispness, creating my own Southern version of the holy trinity. I stirred the Arborio rice until every grain glistened before adding the wine, then the broth a ladle at a time, watching patience transform simple ingredients into something creamy and comforting.

By the time we sat down to eat, there wasn’t a hint that this meal had begun as leftovers and “almosts.” It tasted rich enough for company, yet every bite carried the quiet lessons of three remarkable women who had taught me that abundance isn’t measured by how full your pantry is, but by how wisely you use what’s already there.

Every time I cook that way, I realize I’m making more than supper.
I’m keeping their legacy alive.

Because the greatest recipe they ever handed down wasn’t written on an index card tucked inside a church cookbook. It was a way of seeing the world—a belief that with faith, gratitude, and a little creativity, there is beauty in enough, joy in simplicity, and, if you’re paying attention, nothing truly has to be wasted.

07/13/2026

“My Greenhouse Guardian"

There is something sacred about the small kingdoms we build with our own hands. Mine is a greenhouse made of repurposed old windows and salvaged materials, a patchwork of weathered glass, rusted tin, and boards that have already lived one life before being asked to shelter another. Sunlight spills through it in broken gold, catching on the panes and warming the air until the whole place feels like a held breath. Inside, the plants seem to lean toward the light with a kind of gratitude, as if they know they have been given a second chance.

And somewhere among the hanging baskets, tucked into the green and the blooms, lives a reddish-brown toad who has appointed himself guardian and king of my enchantingly beloved greenhouse.

I did not choose him. He simply arrived one day and decided the greenhouse belonged to him. He sits beneath the trailing fern fronds and the spilling petunias as if he were born to the throne, his skin the color of damp earth after rain, his eyes bright and watchful. He is a little rough around the edges, as kings often are, but he wears his crown well. He rules over the basil, the marigolds, the geraniums, and the begonias with the quiet authority of a creature who understands that every living thing in that glass house answers, in one way or another, to moisture, shade, and patience.

He hides in the hanging baskets like a secret.

More than once, I have reached up to water a plant, only to have him burst out at the last possible second in a sudden blur of legs and dignity, landing somewhere nearby with a soft, startled plop. He never seems offended by my surprise. If anything, he appears pleased with himself, as though startling me is one of the duties of his office. Then he settles again, blinking slowly, and resumes his watch over the kingdom as if nothing at all has happened.

He is also a talker.

Not in words, of course, but in toady croaks and little throat sounds that seem to rise from somewhere deep and ancient in him. He speaks when I water the baskets. He speaks when I move a pot. He speaks when I linger too long admiring the blooms. Sometimes he sounds like he is offering advice, and sometimes like he is simply commenting on the weather, the way the light falls, or the scandal of a bee too bold for its own good. I answer him, naturally. It would be rude not to. We have our conversations among the ferns and the salvaged windows, his croaks and my murmured replies drifting through the warm air like a private language.

I have decided to call him Oberon.

It seems only fitting. He has the bearing of a fairy king and the temperament of one, too. He is small, yes, but there is nothing small about the way he inhabits his world. He belongs to the damp corners and the hidden places, to the underside of leaves and the shadowed rim of a clay pot. He is at home where roots drink and blossoms open, where old glass catches the sun and turns it into something almost magical. In a greenhouse built from castoffs and memory, he is exactly the sort of ruler one might expect: a little mysterious, a little mischievous, and entirely at ease among the flowers.
I like to think the plants know him too.

The hanging baskets sway gently when he moves through them. The blossoms seem brighter where he rests. Even the air feels different when Oberon is near, as if the whole greenhouse has paused to listen for his next croak. He is part guardian, part trickster, part blessing. He reminds me that beauty does not always arrive in polished forms. Sometimes it comes with warty skin, muddy feet, and a sudden leap from the shadows.

And every time he startles me, I laugh.

Because that is the charm of Oberon, king of my greenhouse: he hides in plain sight, rules without ceremony, and appears exactly when I least expect him, as if to say that the garden is alive, the light is changing, and I should pay attention. 🐸👑🌸🌼🪻🪴💚

07/09/2026

“Measured by Her Hands”

Some of the sweetest memories of my childhood began with scratched-up legs and purple-stained fingertips.

When the blackberries were ripe, Granny would hand me a basket and send me down the edge of the pasture where the thorny vines grew wild. With sun-warmed hands, I carefully plucked the ripe, purplish-black blackberries from the bramble that reached out to claim a little skin for every handful of berries I picked. My fingers stained sweet while my basket filled with the season’s harvest. I’d fuss about the scratches, but Granny would just smile and say, “You’ll forget those when you’re eating biscuits.”

She was always right.

Back in her kitchen, she’d pour those shiny blackberries into a saucepan, sprinkle in a generous helping of sugar, and set them on the stove to simmer. Before long, the berries would surrender their juice, filling the house with a smell that was somewhere between sunshine and heaven. She didn’t add anything fancy—just blackberries, sugar, a pinch of cinnamon, and patience. Somehow, that was all it ever needed.

While the sauce quietly bubbled away, she’d turn her attention to the biscuits.

There wasn’t a recipe card tucked away in a drawer because the recipe lived in her hands. She’d dip one of those strong, work-worn hands into her biscuit-making bowl of flour, make a little well, and drop in a scoop of shortening. Then came the buttermilk, poured until it simply looked right. No measuring cups. No measuring spoons. Just decades of knowing.

She never rolled out her biscuits like the cookbooks said to do. Instead, with floured fingers she’d pinch off just the right amount of dough, plop it on her greased round baking pan, and pat it down with the back of her fingers to the perfect size and thickness. She did this until the pan was full, each round piece of dough slightly touching another. They fit together like family around a Sunday dinner table.

I watched her a hundred times and tried to do exactly what she did.

She tried to teach me.

“Just use your hands,” she’d say.

That was the problem.

Her hands knew things mine didn’t. They had kneaded thousands of biscuits, shelled peas on front porches, gathered eggs before daylight, canned vegetables from gardens, and comforted babies through fevers and broken hearts. Those hands could measure without measuring because they had spent a lifetime learning.

Mine were still little.

I wanted so badly to make biscuits that tasted like hers, but I finally realized the secret ingredient wasn’t her bowl of flour, shortening, or buttermilk.

It was Granny.

Even now, I can bake a pretty good pan of biscuits, but every once in a while, when I spoon warm blackberry sauce over one fresh from the oven, I close my eyes and find myself back in her kitchen. I can hear the gentle rattle of the saucepan on the stove, feel the flour dust floating through the morning light, and see Granny’s hands moving with quiet confidence.

The biscuits I bake today may come from my hands, but they’ll always belong to hers.

🫶👵📝🏠

07/05/2026

“The Sound of a Sealed Jar”

Every summer has its own soundtrack.

Some folks remember the hum of cicadas or the crack of a baseball bat across a dusty field. Mine begins with the quiet stillness of my greenhouse at Old Crow Farm, where tiny cucumber seedlings reach toward the morning sun. It continues with the soft thump of boots across rich Alabama dirt, the rustle of broad green leaves with the buzzing of busy bees hurrying to and from every yellow blossom, and the satisfying snap of a cucumber breaking free from the vine.

Those pickles begin long before they ever meet a Mason jar.

They begin with a handful of seeds tucked into warm soil weeks before the first fireflies appear. I watch them sprout in the greenhouse, tend them through spring rains, and finally transplant them into the garden where the summer sun works its quiet miracle. There is something deeply satisfying about carrying a basket filled with cucumbers grown with my own hands. Every one of them feels like a little reward for patience.

As I wash them in the sink, I always find myself looking over my shoulder, almost expecting to see my grandmother standing beside me.

Granny never made recipe cards. She carried every measurement in her heart and every technique in her hands. She’d slice off the blossom end without saying why, pack each jar tight with cucumbers, garlic cloves, fresh dill, pepper flakes, mustard seed, and whatever else the garden had blessed us with that week. Then she’d pour in the hot brine as if she’d been doing it since the beginning of time.

I was her little helper, too short to reach the stove without standing on a chair that wobbled every time I leaned too far. My job was peeling garlic, washing jars until they sparkled, and counting cucumber spears while she pretended not to notice when one disappeared into my mouth.

She taught without ever calling it teaching.

She’d simply say, “Watch close.”

And I did.

I watched her trust her instincts more than measuring spoons. I watched her work steadily, never hurried, never flustered. Most of all, I watched how love could find its way into something as ordinary as a jar of pickles.

Now the kitchen at Old Crow Farm belongs to me, but on canning day, it still feels like hers.

The vinegar fills the house with a smell that announces to everyone within shouting distance that pickles are being made. Garlic perfumes the air, fresh dill covers the countertops, and rows of gleaming Mason jars wait their turn. The water bath bubbles on the stove just like it did in Granny’s kitchen decades ago.

Then comes my favorite part.

One by one, the jars begin to sing.

Pop.

Then another.

Pop.

The sound of each lid sealing is more than confirmation that the job was done right. It is the sound of another season preserved. Another harvest tucked safely onto the pantry shelf. Another year of my grandmother’s lessons living on.

Those spicy garlic dill pickles aren’t just something we eat beside hamburgers or pulled pork sandwiches. They’re opened at family cookouts, Sunday dinners, and holiday gatherings. Every crisp bite carries the sharp tang of vinegar, the warmth of garlic, the bite of pepper, and the unmistakable flavor of home.

Sometimes I think canning is really an act of remembering.

We’re preserving more than cucumbers.

We’re preserving voices that have gone quiet, kitchens that no longer stand, flour-dusted aprons folded away in cedar chests, and the women whose hands taught us that feeding people is one of the purest forms of loving them.

Every jar lined neatly on my pantry shelf is proof that a little girl paid attention.

And every time I hear that familiar pop, I smile because somewhere, I imagine Granny smiling too, pleased to know that what she placed in my hands all those years ago wasn’t just a pickle recipe.

It was a legacy.
👵📝🏠🥒🧄🌶️

06/29/2026

“Granny Was Right”

There are some meals that don’t belong in cookbooks because they were never really about the food. They belong to a season of life, to a place, and to the people who made ordinary afternoons feel like they would last forever. Frying is one of the quickest ways to make a warm meal without heating up the kitchen too much, which matters in Alabama summers when the heat settles in and stays awhile.

Every summer, sometime between shelling peas on the porch and waiting on supper to finish, my grandmother would ask the same simple question. “You want a fried bologna sandwich?” As if there could ever be another answer.

She’d pull that thick slice of bologna from the refrigerator, lay it in her old black skillet, and before long the edges would curl into a little bowl while it sizzled and danced in the grease. She’d flatten it with the spatula, but it would stubbornly puff back up, determined to be itself. There’d be two slices of soft white bread waiting on the plate, a square of sliced cheese beginning to melt from the heat, and a generous stripe of French’s mustard—the only mustard worth putting on a fried bologna sandwich, at least according to her.

Back then, she’d reach for an onion, and I’d wrinkle my nose before she even picked up the knife.

“Oh no, Granny,” I’d say. “Not mine.”

She’d laugh that knowing laugh only grandmothers have, slice the onion for her own sandwich, and tell me that one day I’d understand.

Children spend so much of their lives convinced they know exactly what they don’t like. Funny how time has a way of proving grandmothers right.

Now, at fifty-three, I can’t imagine eating a fried bologna sandwich without those paper-thin slices of sweet onion. They cut through the richness just enough to make every bite taste like home. Somewhere along the years, my taste buds caught up with my memories, and I finally understand what she had known all along.

The sandwich itself is still humble. Fried bologna. American cheese. French’s mustard. Soft white bread. Onion. Nothing you’d expect to find in a fancy restaurant or featured in glossy magazines. But every time I make one, standing at my own stove with that familiar smell filling the kitchen, I find myself looking over my shoulder, almost expecting to hear her humming while she wiped flour from her apron.

It amazes me how grief and gratitude can live inside something as ordinary as a sandwich.

The women who raised us never knew they were creating traditions. They were simply feeding hungry children with whatever they had in the refrigerator. They didn’t realize that decades later we’d remember the sound of the skillet, the yellow mustard bottle on the table, or the way the afternoon sunlight spilled across the kitchen floor.

What they were really serving wasn’t lunch. It was love, tucked between two slices of bread. And now, every time I add those onions, I smile, because Granny was right again.
🫶🧅🥪

06/24/2026

"Fried Green Tomatoes"

There is a special kind of satisfaction that comes from stepping into my garden on a warm summer morning, long before the heat settles over the day. The air is still fresh, carrying the scent of rich earth and green leaves kissed by dew. As I walk between the rows, I am reminded that this meal began weeks ago—not in a grocery store, but with tiny seeds pressed into the soil by hopeful hands.

There is pride in seeing the reward of that labor. The green tomato plants hang heavy with fruit, each tomato firm, glossy, and larger than my hand. Nearby, cucumbers hide beneath broad leaves, cool and crisp to the touch. Sweet banana peppers glow like little rays of sunshine against the deep green plants. The basket I fill feels like a harvest of patience, hard work, and faith in the growing season.

Back in my kitchen, the morning’s treasures become something more. The familiar rhythm of slicing, chopping, stirring, and frying feels less like cooking and more like honoring a tradition. Thick slices of green tomatoes are seasoned, dipped, battered, and fried until golden and crisp. A colorful medley of purple hull peas from last year’s crop simmers with fresh corn, onion, and sweet banana peppers, filling the house with an aroma that speaks of Southern summers. Potatoes and onions sizzle in a cast-iron skillet while smoked bologna fries until caramelized, coated in a sweet tangy barbecue sauce.

As the meal comes together, so do the memories. I learned to cook this way standing beside my grandmothers, watching hands weathered by work transform simple ingredients into something extraordinary. They taught me that good food isn’t measured by fancy recipes or expensive ingredients. It is measured by care, patience, and the love poured into every step—from planting the seed to serving the plate.

Today, this kind of cooking feels like a fading art. Fewer people know the joy of growing their own food, shelling peas on a porch, or seasoning a cast-iron skillet passed down through generations. Yet every time I prepare a meal like this, I feel connected to the women who taught me, to the land that provided the harvest, and to a way of life that deserves to be remembered.

The table may hold fried green tomatoes, peas, corn, sweet banana peppers, potatoes, and bologna, but what it truly serves is heritage. It is a meal seasoned with memory, rooted in tradition, and prepared with passion. And as long as there are gardens to tend and grandmothers’ lessons to remember, this beautiful Southern art will continue to live on, one summer lunch at a time. 🍅🌽🧅🌶️🥒🥔