Always add a turnip, it sweetens the pot.

I came to this farm late in life, but perhaps it was always deep in my roots. My grandfather was Russian, an early-in-the-last-century immigrant, comforted in his loss of homeland by beets, turnips, onions and potatoes. A hit of schnapps now and then to warm the insides. Now, I dig in the loamy, organic earth in search of similar sustenance. It was not always so. The Los Angeles freeways were my pathway to freedom. In the fast lane, fast cars, preferably convertibles, sights set on a Malibu sunset, Friday nights cruising Hollywood Boulevard, a Bob’s Big Boy drive-in rendezvous. “Who did you go out with last night?” “A red Impala convertible.” But now, in this small southern town, years blur this memory and I settle into an unexpected pleasure of watching blue herons glide across the pond as hooded mergansers dive for breakfast.

Root vegetables are strong, grow deep, survive harsh winters, last. They add flavor to soup and stews, extend the meat so as to provide for many. Parsnips, rutabagas, carrots are the roots of my existence, my birthright and legacy. Always add a turnip, said my mother, it sweetens the pot.

My second husband brought me here five years ago, and I agreed to come. To me, it is a place of constant bewilderment. How can 12 households live together on this land in harmony, in cooperation, in community, in consensus decision making and get anything done? For this large farm was incorporated 15 years ago as a “co-housing intentional community,” where each household unit owns a share in the corporation. (No, we don’t live together or share partners.) It was created out of the ideals and values that somehow, through understanding, listening, peaceful resolution of conflict, and interpersonal communications skills, this group of people could actually do life better than the rest of the world. Needless to say, this is a work in progress! The grand experiment is continually evolving, and we’re not in utopia yet.

I don’t know what this blog is going to be about. It will likely be akin to living at the farm. Take it one day at a time. Love it. Hate it. Some days it will be wonderful, and others it will be absolutely frustrating. Breakthroughs and impasses. Quiet retreat and energetic engagement. The reality is we struggle to reconcile our differences, just like you.

This weekend, a group is getting together to make miso from fermented beans that can sit for 10 years. I thought I might opt for the version that would be ready to eat in a month. Somehow, the idea of beans fermenting in my house for 10 years does not appeal to me. In this State of the Union, the primary elections won’t happen until May, and it’s still winter. We need something to keep ourselves warm and busy of a February weekend day, and making something out of beans seems appropriate. (People eat a lot of beans here.) There will be chatter about whether Hillary has enough money to carry her through the season, if Obama superstar can overcome the powers that be, what we’re planting in the organic garden this spring, and I’ll bring up why my son’s girlfriend didn’t register to vote in California. I’ll probably like her when I meet her. Cynicism is a strong family trait.

My roots are rebellion, my father was a socialist, I own a fur coat to stay warm (vestige from a former life). I buy at thrift shops, online, and occasionally at Nordstrom. Go figure. Please don’t throw paint on me.