Brooks - Farm from Home

To my beloved daddy, Stephen Cutter (19402016), who gave me my first taste of farm life

An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC

375 Hudson Street

New York, New York 10014

In Praise of Country Life, published by Frederick Muller Ltd, 1949. Edited by Alison Uttley, p. 42.

Copyright 2018 by Amanda Brooks

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ISBN 9781101983447 (hardcover)

ISBN 9781101983461 (ebook)

RICHARD PANDISCIO, CREATIVE DIRECTOR

Version_1

Let the wealthy and great roll in splendor and state

I envy them not, I declare it

I eat my own lamb, my own chickens and ham

I shear my own fleece and I wear it

I have lawns, I have bowers

I have fruits, I have flowers

The lark is my morning alarmer

So jolly boys now, heres God speed the plough

Long life and success to the farmer

God Speed the Plough, author unknown, nineteenth century

CONTENTS

RECIPES

JUNE

JULY

AUGUST

SEPTEMBER

OCTOBER

NOVEMBER

DECEMBER

JANUARY

FEBRUARY

MARCH

APRIL

MAY

J UNE 20, 2012, United Airlines flight 8, from Newark to Heathrow. That is how we arrived to live in England for our yearlong creative sabbatical, the one that isnt yet over. The four of us, well, actually five of usmyself; my husband, Christopher; our nearly eleven-year-old daughter, Coco; our eight-year-old son, Zach; and our beloved three-year-old rescue dog, Gingerall boarded the plane that day feeling completely and utterly exhausted. The last twenty-four hours in New York City had been never-ending. You know that feeling when every bone in your body is telling you to stop what you are doing and lie down to get some sleep, and you arent even close to being finished? Thats how it was. We packed, made lists, copied keys, labeled the dog crate, and cleaned out closets right until the very last minute. I even made an eleventh-hour dash to my doctor when I broke out in a terribly itchy rash on my back that turned out to be shingles. Yes, from the stress. And that was all before we had to say our final, tearful good-byes to my mother, a few of our closest friends, and the childrens nanny, Pam, who had been with us since Coco was just a year old.

For a moment, we considered taking the Queen Mary 2 across the Atlantic for our arrival in England. It seemed like an inspired way to decompress from our relocating frenzy and endless emotional farewells, and we loved the idea of arriving for our new life in such romantic style. But my excitement was quickly extinguished when I learned wed have to wear black tie for dinner every night on the ship. After twenty years of dressing to the nines each day for work in the fashion industry, the thought of having to be formal for each night of the seven-day ocean passage, especially while surrounded by a bunch of cruise-ship enthusiasts, was the nail in the coffin of that idea.

Looking into our cottage garden past the rosa mundi rosebush, a giant belle etoile philadelphus, and some cow parsley. Philadelphus, which flowers in June, is my favorite flower to cut for the house; it has the most delicious smellkind of like bubblegum, but in a good way.

The biggest concern about the eventual plane journey was Ginger and her fragile disposition. Given her rescue dog vulnerability and her melodramatic reactions to thunderstorms (spread-eagle, lying on top of me, shaking all over), I was worried that the loud noises and the uneven movements of the plane might just be too much for her. We followed the airline instructions to the letter and read every possible Web site with pointers and tips for dogs flying in cargo. Then, to add to the worrying, we called Heathrow the day before the flight to clear Ginger for customs and were told that the wait to pick her up after the flight would be five hours! After begging and pleading with the airline staff to have her expedited, they casually mentioned we could have her delivered directly to our house an hour and a half away in Oxfordshire for a mere eighty-eight pounds (about a hundred and forty dollars). While we quickly jumped at that option, it only prolonged the time until we would know that Ginger was okay. During the flight, every sound, jolt, and awkward motion of the plane had me worried about our precious baby down below. Nevertheless, at three p.m. on that Thursday afternoon, a few hours after we arrived at our cottage on the farm where Christopher grew up and where we would now live, a minivan pulled up and we all ran outside with great anticipation. We opened the crate with anxious hands, and Ginger jumped right out, doing her signature wiggle dance, in which her unusually long and fluffy tail shakes so wildly that it swings her entire body from side to side.

Three days after we moved to England, Ginger followed Coco down to her riding lesson a few fields away from our house. Polo surprised us all when he came right up and gave Gingy a cuddle as she sat on the bench. I dont think Gingy knew what to do with that kind of attention from a horse.

The next task was to introduce Ginger to the animals. Our cottage is right in the middle of a farmyard, and at that time the stables right beside us contained horses, donkeys, and pigs. Given that Ginger was terrified of the two Great Danes that lived in our New York City neighborhood, I didnt have high hopes for her reaction to much stranger and larger animals. To our surprise, however, she briefly cowered in front of the pigs, didnt seem at all fazed by the donkeys, and ran up dangerously close to the horses, who were being saddled up for a ride. Coco mounted one and took off. It had long been a dream of hers that Ginger would follow as she rode her pony, Polo, around the farm, but Ginger stayed right by my side, not budging. Give her some time, I suggested. And when Coco eased Polo into a trot as they were nearing the woods, Ginger took off after her and followed them until they all reappeared together an hour later. Ginger was wet, muddy, and out of breath, but I have never seen her happier.