muddle me this

My last night working in the culinary barn—so bittersweet. 

I came into the barn having never worked in a restaurant.  An appreciator of many, an employee of none.  But just like going on tour with the grateful dead doesn’t make you a musician, I came into this experience with almost no concept of what it takes to run a fine dining restaurant. 

I drank the kool-aid, and got drunk off it’s implied legitimacy.  Standing behind a wooden bar in a freshly pressed suit—you can say almost anything and you’ll be right.  Here sir, have a glass of this blee-blooh-blah, you’re gonna love it. 

I came in with an uncharacteristic nervousness about what to expect.  I was very unsure.  But in the end, like all new responsibilities, it came down to the same skills:  multi task, be smart, and be quick.  

The camaraderie of the team—the family—is the sort of ball busting, locker room camaraderie that three years on the floor of the stock exchange will make you an expert at. 

The culinary barn is the peak of the guest’s experience at blackberry farm.  It felt like the major leagues—and, i suppose it was.  Working at the barn has completely changed our vision for what our future restaurant is going to look like. 

Envisioning our future farmhotelrestaurantspawellnesscentervillage is like dreaming in reality.  We are inspired by everything, and open to everything.  All day long we think about what the future holds, and what we need to do in the present to get there.     

sweaty mess

Dreams come true when half a dozen lawyers and fourteen governmental agencies say they come true. 

Dreams come true when a village gathers to fill out your paperwork.

Dreams come true when the stars align, when the water’s just right, and when the flow—well, flows.

You can’t just get out of bed and live the dream—in fact, you might consider never getting into bed at all. 

Dreams come true when you form asset-protecting entities.

Dreams come true when you perform a slew and a half of technical investigations into water quality, soil quality, and the sensitivity of nearby endangered species. 

Dreams, when lived out in reality, can become nightmares.  But nightmares, as they do, will snap you back to reality with a sweat and a rise. 

So here we are—upright in bed, palms sweaty, chest sweaty, breath short but heavy.  Heads crossed, fingers shaking—trying to paste together fragments of dreamland and reality.  Making sure I’m where I think I am—

--and starting the day afresh. 

foggy dreams

two years ago this week, I quit my job on the floor of the new york stock exchange and ventured down a road that has changed my life forever. 

one year ago this week, I left the rhythms of slow food international’s terra madre conference in Italy, and met my love in rome, seeking her hand in marriage.

and this year, on this forever fateful autumn week, we took yet another life changing turn which has pulled our dreams from the stratosphere and scripted them firmly in reality. 

as was the case when I quit my job on wall street, it took me months of subdued, mouth-clasping restraint in my written word before I was comfortable sharing my news with the internets. 

and this summer, as I was transitioning from our farm in athens to our current roles at blackberry farm, it took me months of thought, as well as careful conferences with blackberry’s human resources department, before I felt comfortable sharing our experience here:  a behind the scenes view at north america’s number one resort. 

this feeling of restraint engulfs me again as we embark on this next chapter.  the fog pours off the ocean, climbing as it might the first coastal peaks which capture it’s moistened fury, nestling down onto its banks as a hazy glare.  a relaxed sun casually burns it off by mid day, revealing it's massive, raw power. 

nestled in this fog is our hopes and our dreams and our future.  as the sun rises on the day of this life, as the weeks unfold—and the months—the story of this journey will continue.  but as these shifts are happening in real time, I once again find myself acting in ways of which I cannot type. 

for now, enjoy the photo.   

shake it till it's cold

sweat mats the freshly pressed dress shirt to the small of my back, and small red bumps raise up along my neck collar as I move quickly back and left, forth and right across, through, in and out of the bar. 

well sir, you see, to be considered bourbon, you must meet the following four characteristics.  you must be made in the good ol’ us of a.  you must be aged at least four years, and it must be done in a brand new, freshly charred, white oak barrel.  lastly, you must make it of at least fifty one percent corn.  that’s bourbon.

but this here, in my hand, is an experimental concoction thunk of by a master distiller at america’s oldest running distillery, buffalo trace, out of Kentucky.  once you meet those four basic requirements, you are allowed to tinker with your product willy nilly as long as you clearly demark the williness on the label. 

for example, in my hand, is one of the rarest unicorns in the bourbon animal kingdom.  the buffalo trace cabernet franc.  after the initial four years of aging, they decided to let it ride for an additional four years.  and then, in the ninth year, they drained the barrel, and re-barreled it into a used cabernet franc cask from france.  the result?  the most delicious, flavorful, and unique bourbon that will ever slide past your lips.  the bourbon embraces wonderful deep fruit notes, adding a complexity to the brown sauce unseen in any other form.

one glass?  coming right up sir.  that will be one hundred and fifty dollars for the pour. 

just a moment in time for the bartender, who hustles this way and that to service his patrons.  a story here, an anecdote there, and a hudred and fifty dollar ounce of whiskey to throw into the mix.  stoke the fireplace, clean the table, straighten your tie, slice the fruit. 

an absinthe rinse, a twist of lemon, a dash of bitters, bruised gin, dirty vodka, infused rum, fortified spirits, single barrels and doubles, the manhattan, the old fashioned, the gimlet and the mule.  the bartender’s repertoire is deep and lush, and it all lives on the tip of his tongue.    

Available for rent, amazing, turn key, organic farm outside Athens, GA

After 15 years of consecutive organic farming on these beautiful 20 acres of brown sandy soil in Ogelthorpe County, the much-revered Backyard Harvest farm is available for lease!  Better yet, it’s available as a “turn key” operation, ready to go to work for YOU, earning true solar dollars effective today.  Historically, this has been one of the most productive farms in the area, with many, many customers and restaurants in LOVE with it’s products.  You can move in and be making money off the land almost immediately, putting your new covered hoop houses to work when everyone else is packing up for winter.     

here is a brief video tour of the property:

Click to read more ...

make waves

the leaves of change dance off their limbs and crash silently outside my window.

the leaves of change make waves across the vistas, setting in motion new ideas and new challenges that won’t bear fruit for years to come. 

the leaves of change abandon their perches, they lighten their loads, and through the now-barren treescape that once stood before me--a thick, lush barricade to my passage—now stands a clear and open perspective, save a few sticks and trunks.

the leaves of change, now free of their roots and their holding-ons, decay into earth and saturate my brainscape with fresh fodder for doings and happenings. 

the forest, while still grand, now has a clear beginning and end.  I can see the end.  and in it’s end, I see the future.  the future is bright.  

I smile with joy as the flaky red leaf swings like a lost pendulum, sticking to my flannel—one last moment to hang onto before disappearing to whence it came. 

I gather my acorns, and I count my marbles.  autumn, in a manner unlike any of it’s siblings, has a way of making you look through it, beyond it—afar and away.  spring comes, and I relish in it’s flowering gay times.  summer, and school children again we become.  winter—the beast—nobody could miss it's raw fist. 

but autumn, with it’s majestic fireworks exploding in slow-motion on every branch, does little keep my attention in place.  I see you, bright leaf, dangling out my window—but soon enough, you’re gone. 

gone to the change of what’s yet to come.  today, though, as you hang on your branch--i'll stop--and be with you in the limbo of fall, wondering what future secrets you hold in your yet decayed skin.    

ihoc