Dark Moon Farm

09/02/2026

I took the week off from my day job.

I started doing this a few years ago, taking the week after both kids are back in school, because apparently I need a scheduled annual reminder that I am, in fact, a whole person underneath all the hats I wear.

Let me climb onto my soapbox for a minute and talk about unseen labor and mental load.

Go back to 2020 for a minute.

At least when it all started, I think most of us were a little scared.

We didn't know what we were dealing with yet. Was this going to turn out to be a really nasty cold that blew through and disrupted life for a while?

Or should we all be watching The Walking Dead on repeat and taking notes?

Nobody really knew at first.

And while we were trying to process all of that uncertainty, a whole lot of parents suddenly became everything, all at once.

Employee.

Mom.

Teacher.

Spouse.

Cook.

Scheduler.

IT department.

Referee.

Emotional support human.

All under one roof, 24 hours a day, for weeks and then months on end.

That was me.

My husband works in medicine, and during much of that time he basically quarantined himself to help keep the rest of us safe. So for months I wore all the hats, all the time.

The first day the kids finally went back to school, I sat alone in my empty house and cried.

Not because I was glad they were gone.

Because for the first time in months, I wasn't responsible for being all the people at once.

I hadn't even realized how heavy it had gotten until I was finally able to put some of it down.

Eventually life went back to something resembling normal, and I mostly forgot about that feeling.

Then a couple years later I happened to have a week of vacation time I needed to burn. I took it the week after the kids went back to school.

And it was glorious.

For seven hours a day, I didn't have to be Mom.

I could just be Sarah.

Sarah the employee.

Sarah the farmer.

Sarah the person who gets distracted by plants, reorganizes barns, starts unnecessarily complicated food projects and occasionally gets to finish a thought without somebody yelling, "MOM!"

So now it's 2026, and here I am again. Kids are back in school. I'm off work for the week.

Am I sitting around eating bonbons and watching soap operas? I don't think I've ever actually had a bonbon. Anybody want to send me some?

Absolutely not.

I've canned peaches.

Worked in the garden.

Cleaned out part of the barn.

Went to my yearly physical, otherwise known as the annual grope and swab.

Made bread.

Finally sliced the bacon I cured and froze.

Fed all the animals.

Diagnosed an outside water pressure problem, which thankfully turned out to be junk clogging the filter instead of some expensive farm catastrophe.

And discovered a poor little pack of parsley I started in the spring that has apparently been surviving through sheer spite and determination while trying to claw its way out of its container.

It will be getting its own pot.

Probably today.

And this morning?

I'm sitting here eating a bacon, egg and cheese sandwich made with my own bacon on homemade jalapeño cheddar bread, served appropriately on my finest paper china, while watching A Quiet Place Part II.

And yes.

There is American cheese on it.

I have zero regrets.

The bacon is delicious.

I'm going to eat my sandwich, that's mostly homegrown, take a nap. Maybe head to TJ Maxx and look for a cool pot for my poor little parsley plants.

Welcome to my idea of a relaxing week off.

Farm life is weird.

And apparently, so am I.

08/31/2026

What am I making?
Oh, what could it be?

It started with peaches
picked fresh from my tree.

They’re golden and juicy,
they’re sticky and sweet,
and currently scattered
all over my feet.

There’s honey on counters.
There’s juice on the floor.
There are bowls, pots, and spoons
and somehow... there’s more.

The honey came locally,
from last year’s bee haul,
from an apiary in town
not too far off at all.

There’s vanilla involved,
and a wonderful smell,
but what happens next?

Well...

I’m not going to tell.

The jars are all waiting.
The kitchen’s a wreck.
I’ve used every dish
in the whole house, I expect.

But peaches from my trees
and honey from nearby?

Whatever I’m making
better be worth the cleanup. 😂🍑🍯

Any guesses?

08/28/2026

(Almost Entirely) Home Grown - Episode 3

“Po-ta-toes! Boil ’em, mash ’em, stick ’em in a stew.” ~ Samwise Gamgee, The Lord of the Rings: The Two Towers

Samwise forgot one very important option.

Bake them, split them open, and put whatever you want on top because there is a very good chance it is going to taste amazing.

This morning’s version is a breakfast potato bowl.

🥔 Potato from the garden
🧈 Butter from Sunset
🐖 Sausage from our pigs
🥛 Sour cream, thanks to Sunset
🧀 Cheddar cheese, thanks to, you guessed it, Sunset
🍳 A runny egg from the hens
🌱 Green onions that originally came from the grocery store and got replanted here
🌶️ Crunchy jalapeño bits from the grocery store
🧂 Salt and pepper from the grocery store

And those crunchy jalapeño strips?

That was the thing this whole situation was missing.

Also, did you know you can regrow green onions?

Save the root ends, stick them in a little water for a few days, and once they start putting out new growth, plant them in some dirt. Mine started as grocery store green onions, and now I just walk outside and snip off what I need.

Is a baked potato a traditional breakfast?

Maybe not.

But add sausage, egg, cheese, sour cream and scallions, and suddenly we have a breakfast potato bowl.

Samwise would understand.

Probably.

08/27/2026

(Almost Entirely) Home Grown - Episode 2

Today feels like the kind of morning when a sensible person would have breakfast, wander outside for a bit, and then start thinking about second breakfast.

Breakfast itself was a proper farm breakfast.

Potatoes from the garden. Green beans from the garden. Collards and chard from the garden. Ham from our pigs. Butter from Sunset, one of our cows. Eggs from the chickens.

Nothing fancy. No tiny portions balanced artistically on oversized plates. In fact, yes, that is a paper plate.

Because while I may have grown most of breakfast, I am still a mom. I still have a full-time job. I still have kids who need to be driven to hockey and tutors and approximately seventeen other places at any given moment. I love a good Diet Coke from McDonald’s, and every now and then Taco Bell absolutely counts as dinner.

We contain multitudes.

But this morning?

This morning was good food, grown rather close to home, cooked in butter (yes, I churned it), piled onto a paper plate, and eaten until I was completely full.

Then I wandered outside, very full and very content, and my peach tree caught my eye.

And there it was.

This absolute monster of a peach.

Apparently second breakfast had found me.

Standing there looking at it, I started thinking about how many people from generations past would have looked at the meal I had just eaten and called it a feast.

Ham cured because winter was coming and meat needed to keep. Potatoes grown because they stored well and filled bellies. Greens grown not because they made a beautiful garden photo, but because they grew, they fed people, and they provided nutrients when those nutrients mattered. Eggs because chickens truly are the workhorses of every farm.

Simple food.

Practical food.

The kind of food that would look perfectly at home on a heavy wooden table in a little farmhouse, with muddy boots by the door, smoke coming from the chimney, and somebody already wondering what might be available for elevenses.

And nearly everything on my plate this morning came from right here.

Food I planted.

Food I tended.

Food I raised.

Food I preserved.

There is something deeply satisfying about that. Not because I think everyone needs to grow everything they eat, or because I'm pretending I've somehow escaped the modern world.

Trust me. McDonald’s still knows my Diet Coke order.

But there is something special about looking down at a meal and realizing how little distance there is between you and the food in front of you.

If the ocean were closer, maybe I could claim the salt too.

And yes, before anyone suggests it, I HAVE tried growing black pepper.

Three peppercorn plants have entered this farm.

None have survived.

Those plants are expensive, dramatic little creatures, and at this point I have approximately one Disney ticket invested in dead pepper vines.

So the pepper can come from the grocery store.

Even hobbits have to trade for something.

For now, though, I am full, content, standing outside on an absolutely gorgeous late-summer morning, and apparently about to eat a peach the size of a small planet for second breakfast.

Maybe the good life has always looked something like this.

A full belly.
Food on the table.
Something growing outside.
People you love who need you to drive them somewhere.

And second breakfast waiting on a tree.

Preferably served on a paper plate, because I already have enough dishes.

08/26/2026

(Almost Entirely) Home Grown - Episode 1

Dinner tonight starts right here.

These are the core pieces: eggplant, potatoes, onion, parsley, eggs, milk, ground beef, and tomatoes. There are a few additional ingredients coming from the grocery store, but a pretty good chunk of dinner started right here at home.

And here's the fun part: I've never actually made this before.

In fact, the last time I remember eating it was more than 20 years ago. So apparently tonight we're combining farm-to-table cooking with a little culinary time travel.

I remember liking it. I think I remember what it's supposed to taste like. Now we get to find out whether I can actually recreate it. 😂

Anyone care to take a guess at what I'm making?

Bonus points if you can figure it out from the ingredients alone before I post the finished plate.

08/21/2026

Every season has two or three little signs that tell me it has arrived, or that it’s getting ready to leave.

Astronomically, summer still has another solid month left. But this far north, the weather doesn’t always care what the calendar says.

The first sign showed up on August 19.

I noticed the first leaves changing here on the farm. Not the roadside trees that get blasted by exhaust, road dust, salt, and whatever the electric company sprays along the right-of-way. I mean the trees tucked back on the property, away from all of that.

A few leaves had quietly started to turn.

The second sign arrived this morning when I went out to open the barn.

There was just the slightest chill in the air.

Not cold. Not even really chilly. Just coolness without the heavy summer humidity clinging to everything.

You know that feeling.

That first little hint that makes you stop for half a second and think, Oh. There it is.

The garden is still growing. Summer isn’t finished with us yet. There will probably be more hot days, more tomatoes, more weeds, and plenty more sweating before we’re done.

But autumn has started knocking.

And here in New Hampshire, she rarely waits for the calendar to invite her in.

08/20/2026

’Twas the Night Before School

’Twas the night before school, and all through the house,
Not a creature was stirring... except Mom, quiet as a mouse.

The lunchboxes were packed and tucked away tight,
The clothes had been chosen for morning’s first fight.
Breakfast was ready, just waiting to bake,
Because nobody needs decisions before fully awake.

The children were sleeping, all snug in their beds,
While visions of new school years danced in their heads.

And Mom sat alone in the glorious calm,
No one yelling “MOM!” No alarms. No qualms.

She dreamed of tomorrow. The beautiful day.
When everyone leaves... and the noise goes away.

No arguing brothers. No constant requests.
No one announcing they’re hungry five minutes after breakfast.

Just quiet.

Sweet, beautiful, wonderful quiet.

Of course, morning will come far too soon.
The alarm will go off at an ungodly hour, and I will deeply mourn the loss of sleeping in.

I’ll shuffle everyone out the door with backpacks, lunches, water bottles, and approximately 47 reminders to put shoes on.

Then the door will close.

And the house will be still.

I will miss them.

Sometimes.

Probably around lunchtime.

Maybe.

But tomorrow, after a long summer of having my children home, I get my quiet back.

And to all a good night... because that alarm is coming whether I’m ready or not.

08/18/2026

08/15/2026

House Hippo Shenanigans
Episode 24: A Display of Absolutely Nothing

Here, in the wilds of the suburban living room, we observe the house hippo in one of her more baffling behavioral displays.

Pixel has climbed onto the arm of the sofa.

Why?

No one knows.

There is no food.

No intruder.

No immediate threat.

And yet, she begins to bark at the primary human with tremendous conviction.

Not because she needs anything.

Not because something is wrong.

But apparently because she has thoughts.

The house hippo bounces excitedly on the arm of the sofa, issuing a series of sharp demands directly at her human.

The human responds.

This only encourages her.

She barks again.

Bounces.

Barks.

Bounces.

Then, quite suddenly, she retreats to the floor.

Perhaps the confrontation is over.

Perhaps peace has returned.

It has not.

Moments later, the house hippo reappears, scrambling back onto her elevated position to continue the argument she herself started.

One must admire the confidence.

At approximately twenty pounds, Pixel possesses neither the size nor the authority one might traditionally associate with such a forceful territorial display.

She simply refuses to acknowledge this.

And so the ritual continues.

Up onto the sofa.

Bark at the human.

Bounce dramatically.

Retreat to the floor.

Repeat.

There is no known objective.

There is no apparent winner.

There is only Pixel.

And apparently, she has something to say.

08/14/2026

Apparently, you can get a sourdough starter that traces itself back to 1847 and the Oregon Trail for basically free.

So obviously, I’m sending for it.

Because there is absolutely nothing questionable about mailing away for a 179-year-old colony of living organisms whose origin story involves covered wagons, disease, starvation, questionable sanitation, and people making decisions like, “Sure, let’s walk to Oregon.”

My first question is not whether I can keep it alive.

My first question is:

What are the chances the bread is haunted?

Because listen. Whoever originally made this starter is 100% dead. Everyone who ate the original bread is dead. There is a non-zero chance somebody whispered their dying wishes near this starter.

Possibly while dying of dysentery.

Maybe someone died protecting it.

Maybe someone cursed it.

Maybe somebody ate somebody.

Wrong pioneer party? Probably.

Am I ruling it out?

Absolutely not.

And now, nearly two centuries later, I’m apparently going to revive it in my kitchen, feed it flour, and encourage it to grow.

This is how horror movies start.

Best case scenario: delicious sourdough.

Worst case scenario: I wake up at 2 a.m. to the sound of a wagon wheel creaking in the kitchen and a disembodied voice whispering...

"You have died of dysentery."

Naturally, I’ll keep you posted.