Dear friends of the farm…
January slips out the back door
without much ceremony.
No speech.
No goodbye.
Just cold boots on the office floor.
And just like that…
the first month of the year is wiped clean from the whiteboard.
We erase it all.
Start drawing the year again in non-permanent marker…
because plans change.
Always do.
Add a healthy amount of wishful thinking.
February’s when the dreaming stops…
and the work starts.
This is the month when our hands get very dirty.
Seeds were ordered back in January.
Thousands of ’em.
Small.
Unimpressive little things in paper packets.
Each one a future problem.
Or a future dinner…
Depends how the season treats us.
Then come the trays.
One-inch squares.
One seed at a time.
Over…
and over…
and over again.
People call it meditative.
I call it repetitive.
Borderline maddening.
But every square is a possibility.
A plate.
A memory someone hasn’t had yet.
So we keep going.
And going.
First into the ground — English peas in the greenhouse.
After that, we build trellises…
wood and wire…
so they’ve got something to lean on
when they start reaching for the sun.
The winter greenhouse keeps doing its quiet, stubborn work in the meantime.
Tuscan kale.
Beets.
Fennel.
Swiss chard.
Dependable.
Honest.
Not flashy.
The kind of vegetables that don’t complain.
The farm stays closed during the week for now.
That’s our time to reset —
pull irrigation lines…
move the same things three times…
and finally fix what broke in December.
Weekends belong to the Market.
And starting February the fourteenth,
the Kitchen comes back.
Saturdays and Sundays only.
Winter chalkboard menus.
Small.
Direct.
Built around what we actually have…
not what looks good on paper.
Our new hens arrive this month.
In just a few weeks, these lovely ladies will be producing enough eggs
for the market kitchen
and our Egg Share program — sign-ups begin in March.
The older hens move slower in the cold.
Fewer eggs.
But better ones.
Still warm when you pick ’em up in the morning.
Still perfect.
Sent daily to Russ and the team in the kitchen.
Up at the cottages, winter takes on a different shape.
We call it Reflection.
Yoga in quiet rooms.
Massages that unknot the city from your shoulders.
Farm meals cooked by our chef
for people who remember that time with friends and family
is priceless.
For couples or smaller groups,
our one- and three-bedroom cottages are open too.
Same fireplaces.
Same kitchens.
Same night air drifting across the fields.
Just a softer winter rate.
And then there’s Valentine’s weekend.
Long tables.
Shared plates.
Bottles passed hand to hand.
A few familiar dishes.
A few surprises.
Strangers sitting close enough
to become friends by dessert.
It gets loud.
It gets fun.
The way sharing food with friends is supposed to be.
Winter doesn’t mean the farm is sleeping.
It just means…
it’s thinking about what it wants to become.
Hope to see you out here soon.
In the greenhouse.
In the fields.
Or at the table.
—Ed Hackett
General Manager, Beach Plum Farm
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