I know this is getting redundant… I promise to stop using the word “shenanigan” and refrain from farm references for at least a week. 🙂

Homegrown In The City

The new year shenanigans of 2014 were just dying down when “homegrownjewlz” opened its doors. With only one product to sell, it seemed crazy, but I knew I needed to start somewhere and the time was right.

A decade-ish ago I moved off the farm, and left much of the homemade life to search for what else I may find for myself. I moved to Atlanta and found much more than I could have ever hoped for–a high school job teaching English, my husband of ten years now, and an incredible Italian family who loves me as their own. What I found didn’t replace what I’d left behind, but it did enrich my life and open doors I’d never noticed before. I’m incredibly blessed to have lived two very different lives–one on the farm growing up, and another in suburbia growing into myself, and learning to appreciate both lives. My husband and I now live in a niche of downtown Atlanta, where our townhouse is connected to five others, we border the town square and bocce ball court, and hear the mutterings of the city until late into the night. I traded in quiet, starry nights for a city-scape off my bedroom balcony and could never say that one is better than the other–they’re just different and I’m eternally grateful to have experienced both.

For the first time, I’m entirely embracing all that is and ever was homegrown about my parents, my siblings, and myself. I love that I know how to sew everything from church to prom dresses, preserve bizarre looking meats and vegetables for the winter, make cinnamon bread from scratch, crochet baby blankets, stir up the perfect strawberry jam, and appreciate homemade detergent. I opened my Etsy shop because I’m proud of the way that I was raised and want to infuse homegrown ideas into products that I can share. Whether it’s homemade detergent, strawberry jam, patchwork aprons with rickrack from my mom’s “sewing center” or any other homegrown creation, I want to bring a little more wholesome and a little less “made in China” to our everyday world.

I just finished baking for my 3rd period IB Language class tomorrow, as it’s our last day together, and I promised them a “Jingle Jelly Jam Party” featuring a few baked goods and my homemade jam.  They’ve worked crazy hard this semester, survived a really daunting assessment in November, and are essentially going to coast through the “final exam” tomorrow and right into farm trivia and a lesson on framing via The Princess Bride. 🙂 I love that our last day together can finally be some downtime to laugh and bond over food–because that’s what I think I do best.

It’s been a tough semester and while life has brought some serious challenges, I’m thankful for the obstacles that have made me stronger, optimistic for what lies ahead, and most of all, so grateful to be “home” to spend much needed time with our family.

I sorted through a variety of brownie-stained letters from today, and for the first time realized that I may have done okay by some of my students, in spite of feeling like I couldn’t or didn’t give enough.  I realized again, how resilient, forgiving, and incredible high school students can be.  They get a bad rap sometimes, and it takes some perspective to really get them.

Three of my students helped pack up my room today, and I even trusted them to pull up my car and load it…now that’s love and trust if I’ve ever seen it!  These three and a few others went in together on this incredibly thoughtful gift, and as I re-read their notes inside the cover of a beautiful copy of Grimm’s Complete Fairy Tales, I thought about how influential we are in each others’ lives–so much of who I am is a result of small, but important moments with people who have touched my life and left a print.

Maybe my former students will entirely forget their gestures, but I will always remember the day that my JECA kids gave me a surprise party and a necklace I still treasure, and the day an unexpected group of Norcross kids gave me a fairy tale collection I’ll read over and over again to my nieces and nephews.

Life has a funny way of working out, and I feel entirely content as my final batch of cupcakes for tomorrow cools and awaits frosting.

It’s hard to really define home these days.  I love our city townhouse and breathe easier when I step inside and smell the muskiness of hardwood floors and the faint scent of last night’s cinnamon candle.  But I also feel a deep sense of comfort in Mom and Poppi’s house in Sugar Hill, as life doesn’t get much more comfy than the feel of family around a table of Italian food.

My parents’ farm in Illinois will always be a significant way that I define home, as it holds the memories of 18 years of growth and invention; as we all get older and talks of who might take over the farm become a norm of conversation, my heart panics.  I can’t imagine being unable to “come home” every winter and summer.  The patchwork quilt that hangs over the upstairs banister kept me warm on the wooden loveseat when I was home sick from school.  The horrific orange carpet of the stairs was our laundry shoot as we rode the piles of laundry down the stairs and onto the kitchen linoleum.  The “hamshack” is my dad’s version of a man cave, and is not only where he harbored all his radio shenanigans, but also the place where he taught me about the computer and I got my first email address  sauerkraut1980@aol.com.  And don’t get me started on the front porch, the haymow in the upper barn, the three-wheeler in the pasture and the hand painted swing set.  Sigh.  The point is, this is really what home looks and feels like and this year, for the first time in our ten years of marriage, we’re going home for the holidays.

Nicholas works retail, so Christmas is usually a no-go.  But somehow, we were able to make it happen this year, as we booked tickets last night for the weekend after Christmas.  This way, we get the best of all worlds….we get to have a Christmas Eve slumber party with the Italian family here, and spend the following weekend on the farm for a (hopefully) white Christmas.

I know that home will always be wherever Nicholas and I are together, but it feels good to look forward to going back to my roots, especially at the holidays.

Nicholas has recently determined a new hobby.  I came home one day to a variety of packages at the front door and Nicholas was giddy with excitement.  We unpacked an exorbitant amount of pizza making supplies–a couple of peels, a huge pizza stone, a dough slicer, metal containers for each dough ball, double-zero flour imported from Italy, an oven temperature gun, dough starter…the list goes on.  I can’t remember where I was when he decided to order all this stuff, but I do remember the excitement in his voice when he told me he ordered a “few” things.

We used to make pizza with Publix dough on the grill, but after his pizza shopping spree he changed the technique.  One night I found him sitting on the floor in front of the oven with a hack saw and pliers.  He had decided to dismantle the lock on the oven so that we could set it to cleaning mode and cook pizza at 800 degrees.  I thought he had lost his mind.

He made his first round of home made dough with precision and attention like I’ve not seen in the kitchen.  Flour coated every possible surface, but he had 3 beautiful dough balls at the end of the flurry, and enough starter to continually “feed” and use indefinitely.  Our first pizza party was a smashing success.  We took all the necessary precautions with tin foil over the oven glass and under the stone and then fired the first pie.  It was quite literally fired, as we scorched it a bit too long, and quickly realized that 2 minutes would do the trick.

We had pizza every few nights for a little while, and the pizza cutter was constantly in the dishwasher; we’ve throttled back a bit now to about once a week, but the excitement hasn’t faded.  He’ll announce, “I think I’ll make some dough tonight” in a very serious tone as if he were entering in on nation secrets.  He refuses to wear an apron and is somehow always dressed in black for his flour debut, but I love that he takes his pat-a-pat-pat on each so seriously, with no mind to the excessive effort or mess.  My favorite is pancetta, garlic, buffalo mozzarella, and purple basil, and I’m thrilled to announce that my task is merely to shop for the ingredients and clean up the mess.  Life is good when you’re married to the Pizza Man.