hello, again

this was our backyard for one night. deetjen's, big sur.

it's been a while. a long while. since i last wrote, i proposed to my girlfriend; bunked for a night under a redwood along a creek in a cabin on a big sur canyon; lost my grandmother to cancer; failed to add any new clients to the business; stephanie opened her restaurant; started reading the town that food saved—a remarkable story of agriculture and community set in a vermont town called hardwick; finished reading anthony bourdain's newish book; moved; my parents moved, too; and so did my brother mikey; got deathly ill off oysters in san francisco—in the middle of the night, when i was going to propose the next day; the hearty boys received a flawless review in the tribune—and are now packed nightly; my brother tommy graduated from the 8th grade; found what might very well be the venue for the wedding; went to a wedding in north carolina; and michigan; but failed to eat my first chick-fil-a; but not my first epic burger; and, oysters and sickness and all, somehow the girlfriend said yes.

and yesterday morning i found myself sitting next to a husband and wife farmer, discussing a future project that's very much raw and in the early stages of development—but just might have the right combination of timing, public and political interest, influence, and just a desperate, desperate need by a small minority (family farmers) that'll evolve into something really, really big. something i've been waiting and waiting to not only see, but have a hand in.

but it was sitting next to the farmers, hearing first hand what it's like to be small farmers in a country whose government is making money hand-over-fist with its interests in big food commodities, when i noticed the dirt and filth caked to the nails of the farmer sitting next to me, that i realized how far i'd come in my journey from little woodland hills, california.

this farmer wore the dirt on his hands as though he'd been born that way. that my small, unblemished, dainty little fingers separated my hands from his like his bald head was different from my flowing head of hair. like blue eyes are different from green. the farmer wore his filthy and weathered hands like he had no choice. something like genetics.

i was sitting next to, and having a responsible and mature conversation with, real life farmers. to me—i could've been sitting next to magic johnson or vin scully—big deal, man.

and when i woke up this morning, i couldn't stop thinking about finding a way to re-immerse myself yet again within the issues i'd been writing and researching about late last year. family farmers are struggling. corporate farms are thriving. and in all this time that i've started my business, thousands of people across the country have continued to write and work and better the state of our food systems. well, i'm looking forward to rejoining the cause.

that, and run a business. and plan a wedding.