By summer, the plants are working overtime. It's a wonder we don't have as many words for green as the Inuit have for snow.
As soon as frost threatens, my brother drops everything and calls all hands to come help dig the sweet potatoes.
My favorite heirloom fruit tree nursery sent an e-mail about a sale. With scarcely a thought, I ordered a bucket of trees.
It's been too long since Christmas, and most folks wish the winter were over. But this lingering not-yet-spring is a precious time.
If a plant deprives your crop of moisture or sunlight, it's a weed. In most other situations, so-called weeds are actually doing a lot of good.
As a child, I loved to make and eat popcorn with my dad. But this rosy memory is eclipsed by the reality of the popcorn my brother grows now.
U.S. society has shorn food production of its spiritual dimension. Fred Bahnson and Ragan Sutterfield explore this issue from different directions.
Joel Salatin's new book offers a full banquet of opinions, prescriptions and rants. How does the man find time to farm?