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I am Cecilia. A New Zealander who farms in Illinois.

My farms are organic and regenerative and full of stories. I have been writing here about environmentally sustainable farming and food and travel since 2011.

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LATEST POSTS


  • Finding Sheila

    Finding Sheila

    Twice a day now I take the pigs for a walk down by the Creek that is really a Ditch.   NO not you Baby Bobby. Just the pigs. We wander about a bit, the dogs and Poppy run ahead and then run rings around Sheila and I as we walk along.   Then after a…

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  • Fog Daze

    Fog Daze

    The fog is so thick in the early mornings that  the grass is heavy with wet. When I breathe in the nefarious dripping air it leaves a strange burnt sensation in my throat, a thickening, like I want to cough but can’t.  It lingers.  However it warmed up in the afternoon. It does not take much heat to send Sheila my…

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  • Fog Daze

    Fog Daze

    The fog is so thick in the early mornings that  the grass is heavy with wet. When I breathe in the nefarious dripping air it leaves a strange burnt sensation in my throat, a thickening, like I want to cough but can’t.  It lingers.  However it warmed up in the afternoon. It does not take much heat to send Sheila my…

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  • Shadow Play

    Shadow Play

    In the garden, as in life, shadows hold equal value to light.  Especially hard summer light filtered by strong shadows.  This is a perfect blend for me. Too much shade is a problem for a vegetable garden but no shade at all bleaches out a flower garden. (Though I use the term flower garden very…

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  • Misty

    Misty

    The old people (and my neighbours who are not old at all) say that for “For every fog in August, there will be a snowfall in the winter.” Though this saying does not rhyme so I am not sure I trust it. and “If a cold August follows a hot July, it foretells a winter hard…

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  • L’air …

    L’air …

    Yesterday the air felt dense. Not hot and not cold, just full and thick. The clouds stayed low, heavy, old, bosomy. Like flat pillows. There was no wind and little sound. Even the birds were quiet. The night crickets played their instrumental feet softly as though the night was nigh – all day their orchestra played. The day…

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