Do you ever have conversations with yourself…about yourself?

Tell me I’m not the only one. Not that I’m so self-involved…or even that I’m crazy. I’m not.

Really.

But because we’re in the upswing of gardening season, when there is so much prep work to do, and every single naptime (in fact, every free moment) is devoted to said preparation…that quiet time gives me the chance to reflect. Reflect on what it is I’m doing with my life. This craziness that we’ve plunged ourselves into. The gradual transformation that my family has made over the years in how we spend our time, what we eat, and what’s become important to us. Every year, we do more. Become bigger. Raise more. We’re at that point where we’re teetering between hobby farming and…farming. Providing for ourselves…providing for others. Sharing & giving…selling.

But the problem?

I’m a terrible,

terrible,

farmer.

There. I said it.

I just don’t have what it takes.

Just let me explain.

Chickens.

I have had chickens my whole life…and whenever we’ve had them, we’ve always had every breed, color, shape, and size. That never left me. To this day, I have every breed, shape, color, and size. I could never raise just one breed, and selectively choose the best from them to continue to breed. I like having surprises. I love when my hens make secret nests and appear one day with 10 multi-colored little fuzz balls and we play the “Who’s the Father” guessing game for the next 6 months.

It’s irresponsible. Right? We should skip the Maury Paternity Test thing and get serious, right?

But I’m a terrible farmer, remember?

Oh, and I have too many bantams. Yeah. Most would consider these fun size little guys a waste of time and money. We don’t eat them. It takes two of their eggs to equal one regular egg. Financially, they don’t make sense.

But guess what? I don’t care. Why? Because I’m a terrible farmer.

And roosters? I lost count how many I have. I have a strange, deep love for roosters. They are loud, never EVER stop crowing, terrorize the females. Poop everywhere. Pointless.

Pointless, right? Apparently it doesn’t matter to me.

Because…well, you guessed it.

Ducks.

These guys make a mess like no other. Cleaning their coop in the spring is hands-down my most loathed job of all jobs. They are loud…so loud. Especially when they’re yelling at me for supper. Such pigs. And I have 5 drakes that should have been processed about 6 months ago. Even had someone offer to buy a couple of them from us for a steep price. All we had to do was butcher them and make some money so these fine folks could have a fine supper.

But oh, no. Those drakes are still with us.

Because I’m a terrible farmer. And apparently I hate money.

Pigs.

I had a pretty good opportunity this year. Taking on an extra oinker to raise for a friend. And offers from others…people want me to raise pigs for them. That’s good, right? It means someone trusts me, someone sees the benefit in homegrown food. This is a good thing. Making money doing what I love is a good thing.

But then…there’s that second guessing. All of the sudden, I “need” all of these pigs. We have plenty of freezer room! We do!

Because why?

Because bacon, that’s why.

And I’m a terrible farmer. Who hates money.

Oh! And we name them. Go ahead, get annoyed.

Garden.

It’s crazy how much goes into my garden. Not only the countless hours reading, researching, absorbing, applying…but the building and maintenance and expansion. Doing things the hard way…always the hard way. You’ve read about it here. I’m passionate about responsible gardening. Permaculture. Respecting the earth the very best I can. Growing large amounts of food in our short 3-month growing season. Helping others do it too. I love that.

After watching a fascinating series on some small farming operations up in Canada with conditions not unlike our own, my husband suggested the idea of doing a CSA. It would make total sense. We have the ability to do it. We have the know-how. I love gardening as much as I love bacon.

So, again, to do something that I love love love?? And make a living?

But…sell my vegetables? Sell? We already concluded that I hate money, right?

Apparently. Because I’d rather just share.

I’d rather you come to my house and let me make you something homegrown and awesome. Something we harvested. Something we hunted. Something we raised. I want to experience that with you.

If I sold…I would miss out on that. Call me selfish. Call me silly.

Call me a bad farmer. A terrible one, in fact. Because I know it.

But that is where I’m at right now. And probably where I’ll be at for a while.

Perhaps in the future, I will figure this whole farming thing out. You know, the farming where you sell stuff. Not necessarily make money, but at least make an attempt. Take it seriously, right? Get my brain on the business track.

But if not, I’m okay with being terrible at what I do. I’m okay with having too many roosters and bantams and drakes and naming our food. I’m okay with the free ranging, free breeding mess. Because they make my life so much more enjoyable. They bring chaos and entertainment and noise and joy.

And I love it.