Tuesday, May 10, 2022


 Stop in at our farmstand for veggie, herb, and flower packs!

20200 Quinnell Ave. N.
Scandia, MN 55073

While supplies last!

Currently available:
Veggie Garden 8 and 10 packs
Salsa Garden Pack
Onion Sale
Herb 4 packs

Just next-door our neighbor MIRASOL FARM  is selling 100% Beeswax candles, Essential Oils, and Skin Care products! Quinnell Ave. is a happening place in the Spring! 
In the Greenhouse, May 2022

Monday, May 9, 2022

PLANT SALE coming soon!

 We will be selling veggie packs and herb starts from our farm-stand this weekend. Stay tuned for an early-bird sale info later this week!


early market cabbage.........Peppers........lettuces....

bunching onions.......parsley.......basil.......tomatoes

                                                                                  red and yellow onions..........broccoli.....cauliflower


                         PLANT. IN. DIRT. BE. HAPPY. TO. BE. ALIVE. AHHHHHHH SPRING!

Tuesday, April 12, 2022

Goat Cheese Shares available for pick-up in Marine on St. Croix!

Girls, Goats, and Giggles

Sign up for a local cheese share!
$25 for 4 weeks of fresh goat cheese delivered Wednesdays in Marine on St. Croix!
Support small and beautiful right in your backyard!


Tuesday, March 15, 2022

Ticket to Ride

 Bordering the Western edge of our farm there’s a line of track that cuts through the ghost town ruins of old Copas. The snow melts quickest along the rails, and sticks down the sides of the hilled spine that snakes its way with crowds of thicket and ephemeral water bogs cheering it along. In April, a walk along that line rewards the wanderer with view of marsh marigolds by the plenty. One year there were so many they seemed to give off a glow like a pot of gold hidden in a tuck and roll of the earth. This is the railway which, 130 years ago, used to send spuds off to the city by the car-load. Now it’s largely used for hauling rock quarried up in Dresser, WI, and the weekend tourists riding the historic train from Osceola into the state park.  Last year the faster (and louder) rock train didn’t come by at all, prompting us to wonder if trains were yet another random pandemic casualty.

photo by Ben de la Cruz, NPR

In Kroscienko, Poland there’s a similar all-but abandoned rusty line of rail skimming through a thickety countryside near the Southeastern border with Ukraine. The pictures of this particular set of parallel lines, grimacing with its rotting planks and patches of stubborn snow, like shaving cream on the face of the hill, are remarkable because they look exactly like the ones in our backyard-which is to say, they are not remarkable at all. There the trees are also bare, the recently sawed-off ends of the encroaching junk saplings by the work crews, marking the abrupt imaginary line where the wild tangle of overgrown weeds and grass and shrubs were deemed suddenly unwelcome, after nearly 100 years of having it their own way. Poland is sending several crews along the line to rebuild it, and bring it back into use to help with the refugee crisis. I wonder how many old things, old ways our tech-savvy world has abandoned, only to frantically return to them when faced with something like war. Why not live with it in place, in use, always?

Fran in Winter

Over the years we’ve met people randomly who recognize our farm slowly by remembering their first view of it from the back, waving at us from the train as we planted out the pumpkin crop or harvested cabbages. To them, it seemed like the train was a magicked thing, which took them back 100 years as soon as they stepped upon it, and it chugged its way across the St. Croix, through the woods, and suddenly happened upon a clearing where Buttercup and Fran were grazing and gazing at them placidly with their big Jersey Cow eyes, and little girls in calico dresses were running barefoot to catch a glimpse of the engine.

When the train starts running again, and the picnickers wave from the historic cars and stand at the back for a better view of things, it will be hard not to think of that sister train in Kroscienko, hauling women and children away from the shelling and gunfire. I hope it too will be a magicked train, breaking the evil spell that made them into hunted creatures, giving them a chance to enjoy a better view of things again.

Monday, March 14, 2022

Impromptu Arias

 In late February the sunlight grows stronger and the seed of the new growing season seems to soften a crack and germinate in the hibernating heart of the farmer. Like a small animal that rolls over in a deep burrow lined with musty leaves and twigs, stretching itself and blinking with a yawn and a sigh before it remembers what it is in this old world, and what it is like to be up and doing, I find myself lining up the seed packets and marking up calendars with dates to start to Celosia and the Sage…

I can always tell that spring is on its way when the children get restless and wild to be outside… the increasing daylight is coaxing them out like the Pied Piper of Hamlin, and we greet peeks of real (squishy) dirt revealed in the medians of the gravel driveways around these parts with almost savage enthusiasm. Bits of green moss and watercress bravely waving in the streams that vein their way through the watershed district that surrounds our farm receive rhapsodies of admiration. It’s almost incredible to us now, to think these little growing things will go un-noticed when their cousins begin their vigorous vying for our attention and exclamation! They are yet another beauty that only the magic wand of privation grants us the privilege of enjoying.

In the midst of one of those teasing thaws that tickle us into daydreaming about barefoot afternoons on the beach, plucking cherry tomatoes, and gathering big bouquets of Queen Lime zinnias, we are suddenly singing our hearts out: it’s an impromptu aria, conjuring the earth, calling her up off her winter couch, even as the sun rolls back the heavy white down comforter from off her shapely shoulders…

It’s practically pagan, and silly, with no one but the trees to hear us, and yet it feels as if we were created for no other purpose than this , to wander a tree-lined path, treading smiling mosses in the median of a graveled drive, participating with all our anticipating hearts in the thaw, as if we were given a voice only for this audience-less concert, as if the desire of the heart to rejoice in the birth of a new year of growth must have some means of accompanying the finches and chickadees in the canopy above, throbbing with new sap running, humming with new buds forming, and hence: the stream-of-conscious opera in the all but forgotten out of the way places that surround our sleeping fields. I sing like a wild creature, but I find my mind straying to those cultivated patches of garden that wait for their manuring and their tilling, and the love of farmer’s hand, clutching dirt covered crumpled-up plans for the rows and widths of vegetables and flowers and herbs, like a man who remembers how he loves his homely wife in her kitchen after catching sight of a siren selling figs in some foreign bazaar ripe with spices and the scent of hookahs, because of some motion of her arm, reaching up to her basket, very like his rounded love, reaching for a tea cup swinging on its hook.

One particular day the wind had the whole woods stirring, and our tame little walk transformed into an adventure as whole limbs crashed down in our path before us, and twigs were tossed to the forest floor with a brazen impatience for anything dry and old. My 2-year-old gripped my hand and said: “Mama! The trees are saying “Wake up! Wake up!” That was the first day we felt that winter was being blown away, and the spring was being ushered in like Mary Poppins, all spit and polish, ready to play “tidy up the nursery”.

On the 25th we will celebrate the feast of The Annunciation. “The Holy Spirit will overshadow you.” In the Song of Songs, the love poetry refers to a “wind upon the mountains” and a “wind that will blow upon my garden”. It is hard not to imagine the Blessed Virgin as that garden, and the wind as the Holy Spirit. The seed that flowers into the new tree of life is the Christ Child…every spring, the earth seems itself like another song of songs in honor of the Queen of Heaven. These are the thoughts that cloy as clods of earth clunk up the muck boots and get tracked through the kitchen and utility room…

Sunday, February 20, 2022

Sign up for our 2022 Season!

 Now accepting Sign-Ups for our 2022 Growing Season

Your check reserves your Little Flower Farm Share!

Check out the sidebar pages for more info!

2021 CSA bouquets ready for delivery

Goat Cheese Shares are Back!

 Back again for the 2022 Season:


Support our wee herd of Nubians with your $25 investment, and get a dividend of 4 weeks of cheese!

Hello Gorgeous! LuLu, ready for her close up
Shares will begin late Spring. Stay tuned!

The Ideal CSA Member


In Winter the “littles” play at garden with the bath mat.

While the morning shower washes the residue of sleepy dreams from my stretching, yawning frame, they are busy with combs and brushes “cultivating” the shaggy strands that stand in for the soil of imaginary fields awaiting precipitation.

“You’re the rain Mama! Come rain on our garden!” they cry as I step out and reach for a towel.

Harvest Day

Later, in February, the light begins to strengthen and the children gaze out the window suddenly disdainful of the recent pleasures of ice skating and sledding, positively nostalgic for summer.

“Remember the green grass we had last year Mama! We had all the green we wanted in all the world!”

Like bears coming out of hibernation we put in our seed orders in January, send out our farm-share ads in February, and now, as March approaches, I find my mind tracking the goats at the back of all the day to day thoughts of Algebra, Laundry, Dinner, and the dusting I plan to do sometime in the near future.

Next week we’ll begin regular barn checks to see if any of the does are kidding. This time of year can be difficult for young kids, especially smaller siblings born after a stronger kid has already managed to get up on its feet nursing. The cold and the competition can prove too steep a challenge for some of them without some timely assistance. (Or so we tell ourselves, eager to lend a hand and get back into the intimate game of husbandry, tired of our woodstoves, and quite evenings, ready to begin again.)

Farm-Share checks are beginning to come in. It feels like the assembling of old friends.

Swiss Chard and Summer Cover Crop 2021

Perhaps the greatest shot in the arm is the sense that there are a few folks out there who understand how beautiful it can be to take an interest in a farm, to put food on their table that has been grown and harvested without exploitation of either the people working on the farm, or the farm itself. Who are ready and willing for the challenge of eating seasonally, locally, and giving up some of the almighty luxury of choice.

A few years ago we had a booth at a CSA fair in Minneapolis. Almost every farmer we met there was anxious about the future of Community Supported Agriculture. Most of them were taking every opportunity to chat with each other and ask the dreaded question of how many members they were retaining each year, and how they had evolved to meet the ever -changing desires of their members. With very few exceptions most of them had begun to offer “Pick and Choose” options at their farmer’s market stands each week, for members to come and fill a box with the veggies they preferred and leave the ones they didn’t. Many had online marketplaces, and were harvesting individual weekly orders. Many had diversified their share sizes, offering various sizes to meet the different needs of families, couples, and individuals. All of them were larger programs than ours, and I grew dizzy at the logistical nightmares they were describing: trying to fulfill such a vast array of desires, and chasing down multiple orders, marketing them multiple ways, and the man-power such daily efforts required.

Grazing Goats in the Kale Bed after CSA season

I told one fellow veggie grower that I could not shake the feeling that these farms had failed to communicate with their members the realities involved for the farmers when grocery store styled “choice” was made paramount. I felt certain that most folks signing up for a farm-share would understand that eating what was available on the farm each week was part of the whole point of supporting a local farm, and that asking the small farm to be both the farmer and “grocer” at the same time, in the pursuit of providing the same amount of choice experienced at the stores, would be unrealistic, and downright unsupportive. Those who still valued their choice over the farm and farmer’s welfare, should be encouraged to go back to the store or farmer’s market, I argued.

“Maybe so,” he replied, “but you’ll lose some folks. These days we can’t afford to lose anybody. We’re trying to retain as many as we can, even as they seem to grow bored of the CSA model.”

As if to prove his point a woman interrupted us with a barrage of questions and demands.

She had a long list of things she wanted, things she didn’t, and wanted a pro-rated share for the weeks she’d be out of town.

Our answers were simple, but not satisfying to her. She left in a huff, shaking her head.

“See what I mean?” my fellow farmer finished. But I was more glad that she left, than I was worried that we didn’t have enough to offer.

“You can’t build a farm with members like that” I said.

Big words, I thought, but you can’t eat ideals!

That’s when the man in the Carhart vest to the right of our booth stepped over to introduce himself. He didn’t need to. I already knew who he was. I’d read several articles featuring his farm, a venture he and his brothers had begun in the Driftless region of Southwest WI on a shoestring. They were now a 400 member CSA farm and were making organic oils out of their sunflower crops, developing quite a name for themselves as one of the very few local producers.

“I miss the days out in the field.” He told me. “We got so big, I don’t even do the farming anymore. I think you’re right to stay small. It will keep you remembering why you’re doing it in the first place.”

He was wistful, and I was heartened.

Since then, we’ve found that there is an ever- growing group of people out there who are willing to sign themselves up to the adventure of supporting and eating from a farm. These people understand the “choice” the grocery store touts is largely mythological. Fewer varieties are available to the shopper in the store, due to the limited varieties that are conducive to shipping, and growing on a massive scale.

One choice you will never be given in a large grocery store is the choice of “fresh”. Our farm harvests the bulk of the vegetables in our shares hours before delivery, or at the most, a day in advance. There is no transit time across state lines in a semi-truck, waiting on pallets in the back of a distribution warehouse cooler.

Though the CSA model, is in my opinion, not as ideal as the European markets, which are open every day, largely unregulated, and are part of the daily habit of people in those walkable, live-able, closer-knit regions, it remains a vivifying way to connect to the land, eat well, and promote local stewardship of precious resources.

The ideal CSA member is one who is willing to give up the tired habit of getting what they want when they want it (at any cost), and is open to the surprise and responsibility of gift.

In this way, they are very like the farmers who grow their food.

Beatrix and the Blessed Sacrament

J.S. Marcus’ Jan.21st article on Beatrix Potter in the Wall Street journal states that “at the height of her fame, she began to wind down her career to devote herself to sheep farming in England’s Lake District.”

In reality, she chose to devote herself to her husband and become Mrs. Heelis. Mrs. Heelis, as Mrs. Heelis, would of course be “a country woman” and involved in animal husbandry and care of the farm and gardens. Why should this fact be less accessible to the current readers of newspapers than the fact that she became a “woman farmer”?

The article continues and finishes in similar fashion:

The curmudgeonly Mrs. Heelis with muddy clogs

“…but according to a BBC radio documentary about the writer, she developed a curmudgeonly streak and, eventually a reputation for not liking children all that much. By the 1920s, Potter, now known as Mrs. Heelis, was shouting down misbehaving Lake District children…. this final incarnation of Beatrix Potter is evoked in the (new exhibition at London’s Victoria and Albert Museum) by a pair of her crude farmer’s clogs.”


Oh dear. Married, miffed by miscreants ruining her shrubberies, AND possessed of muddy farmer’s clogs. How far she managed to fall from the accolades and fame she earned for pictures of bunnies in waistcoats and hedgehogs in ruffled aprons!


When will the world realize that the measure of a person is in how small and insignificant, they’ve managed to become in some forgotten part of the world, and whether they have found someone to love, and love well?

Of NFTs and Furbelows


1: A pleated or gathered piece of material: ruffle; specif: a flounce on woman’s clothing. 2: something that suggests a furbelow esp. in being showy or superfluous

Important Historical illustration of a Furbelow


On our farm we embrace technological poverty.

It’s part of our commitment to invest in each other and to be content to be attentive stewards on our scrap of land.

I still find it an endless source of amusement to hear how portions of the rest of the world fare in the whole- hearted embrace of tech as the new messiah of our lives, which will make all things new, and make our yokes easy and burdens light.

The new L.F.F. Nubian herd sampling Fall kale beds

According to Fortune.com, last year a bored teenager named Jaiden Stipp made a piece of digital artwork.

He listed it online. It sold for 20 Ethereum. At first his father was incredulous. Then the $30,000 hit his son’s bank account.

Today he employs a few artists. His mother has quit her job to work as his manager. His art sales are now valued at over 1 million dollars. His dad no longer scoffs.

I listened to this story on the radio, trying to grasp what exactly a NFT was. To no real avail.

A google search at the library revealed crummy electronic images of dogs with sun glasses, pictures of grinning excited millennials, and a Ven diagram of the properties of NFTs (indivisible, unique, and provably scarce.) Sounds like the traditional family, I thought cheekily, as I scrolled down to find the other things that people who searched for NFTS were also interested in. One of them caught my eye:

2021 Hogs on Harvest Day


Ah. The ever-present attraction of the almighty machine which does work for us while we avoid getting our cuffed sweatpants dirty.

NFT stands for Non-Fungible Tokens. Non exchangeable. Tokens. That make millions.

The word Fungible takes up its space in the dictionary just after “funeral” and is closely followed by fungicide and fun house. As I tried to wrap my mind around what fungibility is and how non fungibility could possibly result in something agreed upon to have value, and be bought and paid for with an electronic currency which is then converted into the very fungible heap-big-pile-o-cash, I found my eyes and mind wandering to the next page of the dictionary where the equally interesting word “furbelow” resides…and the story I remember loving as a child: “The Emperor Has No Clothes.”

In her book “On Pilgrimage” Dorothy Day tells of a Jewish law she had heard of, in which, if a Father does not teach his son a trade, the son’s obligation to take care of his father in old age is waived.

It is chilling to realize that even as we sit our children down in front of television sets as baby sitters, and give them the hand held screens of our smartphones to occupy them during any kind of wait in the Doctor’s office, or dining out during a family dinner, instead of teaching them the superpowers of patience, industry, and human connection and conversation, we are building for our generation the future we will inhabit in the nursing homes of the next generation: completely machine managed, in which medications are dispensed by robots, families say goodbye to dying loved ones via zoom, and the tasks which bring people in direct contact with bodies and their bodily fluids are managed by low-paid over worked vulnerable immigrants and teenagers. Oh wait. The future is now.

“Yes, we will have more time with modern conveniences, but we will not have more love”

-Dorothy Day

Dorothy Day with her grandchildren (cjd.org)

A fellow I know who works in H.R. and “knows a lot about farming because of all his connections with farmers through his work” told me that I wouldn’t believe how high-tech dairy farming has gotten. He said to me: “It’s amazing! Gone are the old days of the dumb hick farmer figuring out a ration for his cows. Now they’ve got these computers hooked up to the feed troughs. They can ascertain all the right vitamins and minerals for each individual cow, and send the feed needed without the farmer. Hundreds and Hundreds of cows kept track of like that!”

I tried to scale the lofty heights of his splendorous awe, but kept getting hung up on the image of hundreds and hundreds of grain-fed dairy cows in stanchions on cement-looking out over lagoons of manure pit slurry.

Would it have been any use to mention that the “dumb hick farmers of the old days” knew that the cow is a ruminant, and as such, thrives on grass and not on grain? Funny how “dumb” is really dog whistling for “content with a financial situation which is now deemed socially unfashionable, foolish, and unacceptable.”

“Cold and hunger and hard lodging, humble offices and mean appearance are considered serious evils. All things harsh and austere are carefully put aside. We shrink from the rude lap of earth and embrace of the elements, and we build ourselves houses in which the flesh may enjoy its lust and the eye its pride”

John Cardinal Henry Newman’s Lenten sermons


Resident Goatherd#2
A small farmer’s profit margin these days might be slim. Always sobering this time of year is the filing of schedule F. But he might manage to invest his time, money, sweat equity and love into a piece of land and into the human beings that make up his family. His chest freezer might be filled with meat and veggies. His pantry stocked with dried apples, pickles, maple syrup, his counter- top crowded with fresh eggs, his fridge filled with fresh milk. The arms of his daughters may be strong and sturdy for all the daily chores of carrying water, mucking out, and pitching hay.

But his bank account will likely not suddenly swell with the likes of 30K.

His constant and quixotic investments in invisible realties like soil health and family unity and the souls of his children will be scoffed at.

Perhaps worst of all, and the most unpardonable: he will have dirt on his furbelows.


Resident Goatherd #1
But one day when he is old and gray, finding it hard to remember where he stored last year’s tree taps for this year’s sap collecting, there will be the sound of a drawer scraping open and the lusty shout of woman’s voice in the kitchen. “I found them!” Busy boots will track mud through the house as the growing season is birthed and underway. The children that grew up drawing February Valentines in pencil; pictures of vegetable gardens and bird feeders, and who danced on their toes in glee at the prospect of filling flats again with germination mix, those children with the strong arms will grip our aging elbows and say:

“Don’t worry Papa. I know what to do.”