Welcome to the 2026 season

2026 Incoming

• A list of what we will  be growing this season will be updated on our website next week

• Stay tuned for Workshop registration opening next week too

Dear Friends,

Happy February! I know many do not delight in this month after such a cold and snowy winter but it holds a soft cozy spot in my heart for it is my birthday month and what better way to celebrate the beginning of this 37th year of being a part of this world than to finally sit down and muse into a newsletter for all the friends and customers a-like that I miss seeing at the nursery, farmers market and around town.  The snow, I will admit has been a bit bewildering to deal with on the farm but the way it makes the sharpness of all the other winter colors exist is such a gift. I also have a strong affinity to playing in the snow that I doubt any number of Februarys will diminish. 

There’s a particular moment every winter when the light shifts just enough to remind you that the season is turning. The greenhouse crops start to grow again. Trays stack up. The smell of damp soil replaces the darkness of January. There is something about the start of a new growing season that feels like a deep breath.

And we begin.

This winter has felt long. Not just in temperature, but in spirit. The news cycle has been relentless. Images and stories about families separated, communities shaken, fear used as policy — it sits heavy. Watching reports of ICE raids and the human cost they carry, it’s hard not to feel grief and anger braided together. It’s hard not to feel the fragility of so much we take for granted. I know many of us carry that weight while we go about our days.

Here we are at the edge of another growing season. And growing food is not neutral work. I don’t have answers for the bigger systems. But I do know how to plant a seed. To plant a seed is to declare that tomorrow matters. And honestly in some moments that’s what keeps me moving.
We do not strengthen community by shouting at each other across lines drawn by politics.
We strengthen it by feeding each other, engaging in conversation.

By growing enough to share.
By choosing to show up locally when the larger systems feel out of reach.
A garden cannot fix everything. But it can feed someone. It can calm a nervous system. It can gather people around a table.
And in a year that already feels volatile, that is no small thing.

This winter I’ve had the pleasure of combing through seed catalogs with my four-year-old daughter, Fae. She has very strong opinions about zinnias. And watermelons with gold flesh. Sitting beside her while she circled varieties that “look magical” brought me right back to the early years of this farm — when we chose things simply because they were beautiful or had a great name.
Thirteen years in, most of what we grow is tried and true. We choose carefully now — based on disease pressure, performance in our Gloucester climate, and flavor above all else. There’s more calculation than there used to be.

And yet.

I’m fairly certain this will be the largest trial garden we’ve ever planted- Because who among us is going to dash the dreams of a four-year-old farmer at heart? So yes — there will be more zinnias. And probably those gold-fleshed watermelons too.

Seeding is already underway. Many Perennial flower seeds already tucked into plug trays for the nursery. Spinach, radish, hakurei turnips, broccoli rabe, sugar snap peas sliding into paperpot trays that will run out into beds that will be prepped in the greenhouses over the coming weeks.

And speaking of seeding — I should have filmed my most recent battle with our potting soil.
For those of you who may not be aware: it is freakin’ freezing out. The greenhouses are one thing. The barns are another story entirely.

The potting soil arrives in large sling bags twice my height, that we line up in the potting barn next to the pot filling machine. In January, they freeze solid. Picture this: little ol’ me on a ladder in full winter woolies, hammering into a frozen soil sack with a pitchfork, then a spade, chiseling away six feet up to break off massive frozen blocks. Hauling them into a tote. Dragging that tote into the propagation house so it can thaw overnight.

If the snow shoveling warmed my arms, chiseling soil over my head was the real workout.
It’s funny in hindsight. It’s also a reminder.

Before a seed ever meets a tray, before a tray ever meets a greenhouse bench, before a head of lettuce ever makes it to market — there is labor you don’t see.

Bed prep. Compost. Irrigation checks. Row cover on freezing nights. Seeding by hand. Transplanting by hand. Weeding by hand. Harvesting, washing, packing.

I was just seeding some winter hardy romaine yesterday and it really got me thinking. We started this farm in 2014 selling lettuce for $2 a head. Thirteen seasons later — after steady increases in seed costs, compost, fuel, insurance, land, labor, equipment — that same head of lettuce is still only $2.25.

I have friends whose salaries rise each year. Promotions. Cost-of-living adjustments. We are working just as hard as we ever have — often harder to balance family life — and yet the price of what we grow barely moves. That reality has sat with me this winter.

I’ve shared long conversations with other small farmers I hold near and dear. Frozen field walks. Talks around the kitchen table. Honest questions about scale. About raising two small kids and trying to build a home while stewarding land. About farmland across the country changing hands. About a food system that feels poised for serious change — consolidation in some places, fragility in others.

Why are we still doing this?
How do we keep going?

I love this work. Deeply. There is nowhere I would rather be than in a greenhouse in February, hands in the soil.

But loving something doesn’t mean ignoring the math. And sure I can and will raise my prices in some places but that’s really not what we stand for. We are committed at heart to keep working at efficiency so we are not pricing out anyone in our community from eating well. We change ever so slightly each season to make sure longevity stays in the game plan. We are battling highly mechanized scale – and we certainly are not winning monetarily but in happiness I feel rich. I am too stubborn to throw in the towel and too selfish to talk myself out of this lifestyle. So a reframing is necessary.

The work of a small, diversified farm has value beyond the sticker price. It’s ecological stewardship. It’s local jobs. It’s keeping land in food production. It’s growing for flavor instead of shipping durability. It’s knowing your customers by name.

That kind of work is necessary. And I believe it’s worth valuing. 

Our entire crew is returning this season. The same steady, capable, kind humans who transplant for hours, troubleshoot irrigation, and show up with care day after day. This team shows up in all weather, during long days and heavy harvest weeks, with humor and commitment. They are thoughtful growers and generous humans, and this farm would not be what it is without them.

Starting a season together again feels like a gift.

And this year, we’re especially excited to invite you in more purposefully.
We are launching more workshops at the farm — gatherings designed to bring people together around practical skills and shared learning. We’ll cover planning your garden, succession planting, season extension, cut flowers, and more. These won’t be lectures. They’ll be Saturday mornings in the greenhouse and fields. Hands in soil. All questions welcomed.

Registration will open next week, along with a full updated list of everything we’re growing this season on our website. We have some very cool new plants coming your way this year. I cannot wait to see you here — not just buying plants but learning alongside us.
We will officially open for the season on April 15th with all our cool weather offerings ready to go. Though we will more than likely have a few fresh produce pick ups before then.

If this farm has fed your family, stocked your garden, or given you a place to learn, I will ask you to keep choosing small farms this season. Bring a friend. Thank you for being part of this farm — Your support makes it possible for us to keep growing food.

All the best, Elise