Release Thoughts—An Open Letter to the New Year—2025

by Kee Kee on January 3, 2025

in Happy New Year,Inspiration

Dear 2025,

Thoughts are like the current of a running stream. Place your hand in the water and it flows through your fingers. You can’t grasp liquid, no matter how hard you try. Just like with water, it’s impossible to hold your thoughts because they aren’t solid objects. Your brain keeps them moving, constantly generating new topics of fantasy to occupy your mind.

For a couple of decades, I had a consistent zazen practice (sitting meditation in the Zen Buddhism tradition). I’d rarely skip a day because it helped center me during some very high stress years when I was an executive in Hollywood. But interestingly, when I left Los Angeles to spend the next five months seeking shama (inner peace) on a road trip with my dog, Yoda, I began to meditate less often. Eventually I moved to Austin for four years, and then, in 2015, I moved to New Jersey. Up until a few months ago, I couldn’t remember the last time I regularly practiced zazen. Last year was a biggie: Eric had two surgeries, a film I directed/produced got distribution which means I was sucked into last minute urgent post-production, a close friend passed away, other loved ones had life threating issues, and election and divided world news was incessant. I realized things in my head had gotten LOUD. That flow of endless thoughts became deafening and paralyzed me.

This is when I was finally drawn back to the meditation cushion. The interesting thing about meditation is it makes it abundantly clear how much noise is generated by thinking. When you sit and focus on your breath, it’s easier to observe what is often called the chattering monkey mind. I’ll inhale and tell myself that I am going to solely focus on my breath, and by the time I’m exhaling (literally two seconds later), I am thinking about what to eat for lunch, or about how I need to organize my closet, or even about a friend who ghosted me twenty years ago.

These last few months of once again having a consistent meditation practice have been instrumental in helping me relearn how to detach from my thoughts, release them, and  just let them flow by. I’ve been noticing how much of life we all miss because we are lost in a fantasy world scripted inside our heads. How often are we truly present in the here and now? Most of our thoughts involve worry about stuff that probably will never happen, and by ruminating on those things we miss out on how truly electrifying the world in the present moment can be. By learning to not buy into the perceived importance of my ever-generating thoughts, I’m learning to ignore them, and to instead focus on seeing the infinite unfolding micro moments of magic that are right in front of me (this was last year’s New Year’s resolution and is a practice that has deeply enriched my life).

Things like the sparkle of frost on the morning grass, a unique cloud formation mirrored on serene glass-like lake water, Lunabelle’s joy at seeing her friends on our dog walks, the sweet earthy crunch of a carrot I harvested on New Year’s Day, a whirlpool swirl of a frozen puddle of water, or Eric giving me a surprise hug from behind when I’m cooking dinner.

The more I release my thoughts, the easier it is to notice the magic in the seemingly mundane moments of life’s daily activities. It’s reassurance that despite the chaos of the world, there is always the extraordinary to be found in the ordinary. That realization is so profound that it just about makes me weep from the beauty of it all.

So, with that in mind, dearest New Year, my promise to you is that I will continue to release thoughts because nothing can replace the remarkable unfolding of the experience of right now.

In short, Year 2025, I think I love you already. Please love me back.

Sincerely,

Kee Kee

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Jax and the Bear in the Tree

by Kee Kee on October 25, 2024

in Grief

One of the last things she said to me was, “This is so hard.”

What is so hard?, I had wanted to ask. Is it the pain? Is it saying goodbye? Is it leaving your daughters and knowing you won’t watch your grandchildren grow up? Is it surrendering to the invisible after fighting for so long?

But I didn’t ask her any of these things because I knew that she wouldn’t be able to explain. The cancer was in her brain, and she could only manage a few whispered words before her attention faded and she looked off into the distance.

This is a story about a beautiful light of a woman, her special bear tree, and a friendship that I will never forget.

Soon after I moved to New Jersey in 2015, I met Jax (a nickname for Laurie Jackson). Her daughter was the dog sitter of my then-boyfriend/now-husband’s rescue, a loveable pittie named Sweet Pea who adored humans, but didn’t get along with other dogs. This was a problem because I was moving into Eric’s house with my arthritic rescue, a senior boxer/French bulldog mix, Yoda. As luck would have it, Jax and her daughter had a soul connection with Sweet Pea, which made Eric’s heart wrenching decision to rehome her with them a tad easier. Jax’s house is less than a mile from us (which, living rurally, practically feels like next door). Our friendship was cemented over a love of dogs, laughter, and long hikes together.

Jax spent the past six years in a fight for her life. In 2018 she was diagnosed with Acute Lymphoblastic Leukemia, a rare blood cancer that was complicated by an even more rare biomarker. A stem cell transplant and vigorous chemo and radiation saved her life. The same year she got sick, she also lost her job and her marriage. Although Sweet Pea is no longer alive, Jax once told me that Sweet Pea got her through her darkest days during this period of her life.

Since then, Jax had three relapses, with each one landing her in the ICU and hospital for months at a time. Her most recent relapse hit last December, and, after almost five months in the hospital, she finally returned home. This time the leukemia, being the savage beast that it was, had invaded her spinal fluid and attacked the nerve endings in her legs, leaving her unable to walk.

Throughout it all, Jax remained the most optimistic, vibrant, hopeful, sunshiny (not a commonly used word, but it’s a perfect description) person I know. Although I’m sure she had plenty of private moments of despair, she never stopped believing in miracles. Her mantra during her years of waging war against the ugly monster called leukemia was, No fear, just faith. In fact, she told me once that instead of questioning, “Why me?” she decided to ask herself, “Why not me?” because she knew that there would be opportunities to share her story and be a beacon of hope for someone else going through a tough time.

A year ago, while she was still in remission, Jax and I were hiking around the reservoir at Spruce Run, a state park near where we live. She took me to meet her special tree, one that had an unmistakable cartoonish face of a bear in the large trunk. I’ve walked past this ash tree many times, never seeing the bear. But once Jax pointed it out, I wonder how I ever missed it. The bear face is about five feet up the trunk, a perfect level for hugging.

Last spring, when Jax was discharged from the hospital in a wheelchair because she couldn’t move her legs, she wasn’t able to visit her bear tree. I sent her a text and told her I was going to take our Belgian Malinois-mix rescue, Lunabelle, to Spruce Run with the intention of visiting her bear and asking it to send healing energy to her. Magic was in the air because as soon as we got out of the car, we met a woman I will call “Cara” who was walking in the same direction. Cara’s hair shimmered from the sunlight reflecting off her fairy hair (silver tinsel strands threaded throughout her head of angelic white hair), and she had a slight limp from a recent knee injury. We started talking as we walked, and our conversation turned to the metaphysical. Cara is a sound healer, using instruments such as Tibetan singing bowls, crystal bowls, and gongs that vibrate at specific healing frequencies when struck.

Cara looked over at me with a  twinkle in her eye, as if she was going to share a big secret. “Do you want to go with me to a bear tree to make an offering?”

I was gob smacked that she knew about Jax’s tree. “I know exactly where the bear tree is, and that’s actually where we are headed!”

When we arrived at the tree, Cara pulled a Ziplock bag out of her pocket that was filled with sugar cubes. She put some in my hand.

“Use these to offer sweetness to the bear, and then ask the tree for a blessing for your friend.” She backed away to give me some privacy.

After carefully placing the sugar cubes in the crevasses in the bark around the bear’s head, I positioned my hands on either side of the bear’s face, closed my eyes, and prayed for waves of powerful healing energy to Jax.

“Do you mind if I hug it?” I love to hug trees, but I wasn’t sure what Cara would think.

“Absolutely, you must. The bear loves to be hugged.” I’m not sure how she knew that, but I wasn’t about to question this fact.

Jax and I talked on the phone after I left Cara, and she was positively giddy that someone else knew about her bear tree. I told her she embodied all the traits of a great warrior goddess, and we agreed that as soon as she could walk again, we would take Lunabelle and the three of us would visit her bear tree together.

Unfortunately, a couple of months ago, Jax entered hospice. During the next six weeks, Lunabelle and I regularly hiked to leave offerings to the bear to help Jax’s transition to formlessness: acorns, pinecones, a feather, pretty seedpods, and many times dandelions, because their vibrant, yellow color is sunshiny, just like my friend.

The day of Jax’s funeral, I picked a colorful bouquet of flowers from my yard and placed them on her bear tree. Jax would have loved this. When I stepped back to take it in, I realized which cartoon bear the tree reminded me of: Winnie-the-Pooh.

It’s no surprise that Jax, a woman who always had infinite amounts of wisdom to share, had bonded with a tree that has the face of the great philosopher bear.

 I miss my friend so much, but I will forever feel her presence when I visit her bear tree. In fact, yesterday I took the above photo of Lunabelle and the tree. I didn’t see the lens flare rainbow until I uploaded the photo for this post. I know it was Jax telling me she’s okay.

 

If there ever comes a day when we can’t be together, keep me in your heart, I’ll stay there forever. — Winnie-the-Pooh 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Micro Moments of Magic—An Open Letter to the New Year – 2024

by Kee Kee on January 5, 2024

in Favorite Posts,Happy New Year,Inspiration

Dear 2024,

Fourteen years ago, when I was in the middle of a five-month road trip driving around the country seeking shama (inner peace), I started an annual tradition of writing a letter to the new year. I’ve largely kept all my resolutions, and I like to think that they have helped me grow with humility and compassion into a more centered, shama-filled person. However, being human means that my innate flaws and shortcomings will keep me growing until the day I die. That became abundantly clear this past November when I had a meltdown while lighting prayer candles on Thanksgiving Day.

Eric and I have four candles housed in repurposed sauerkraut jars that sit in a vintage white enamel tray. Years ago, we started a dinner tradition of lighting each candle for someone who needs uplifting. For the first few years, our sauerkraut prayer candles filled my soul. However, in 2023, I began to dread them. That’s because we don’t have enough candles for all the people we know who are in a literal fight for their lives, not to mention endless others struggling with loss and heavy life burdens.

Being an empath, I feel the pain of others deeply, often in a way that is detrimental to my own mental health. I can get flattened by the grief of others, as well as from the state of the world. Combine that with how I’ve spent the past year looking for answers about my own multiple chronic conditions that have affected me neurologically ever since I was in a 2022 car accident in Mexico, and that means our nightly prayer candles began to symbolize pain and suffering instead of hope and healing. So, on Thanksgiving, through a curtain of tears, I asked Eric if we could convert our nightly prayer candles into gratitude candles.

My reasoning: Endless small, fleeting moments of delight slip through the cracks as we routinely go through our daily motions. I want to condition myself to notice—and remember—each day’s micro moments of magic that bring a flash of wonder and awe.

Lighting our gratitude candles has been harder than it looks. It’s common to focus first on the big and the bad in life, and initially, we’d scratch our heads as we tried to remember the minute things we were thankful for each day. I think that taking notice of magic in seemingly mundane moments is like flexing a muscle. The more we do it, the stronger it becomes. It’s my hope that the effects of this practice are cumulative, and that we are rewiring ourselves to see through the cloak of pain and approach life with optimism.

My idea for gratitude candles arose from the puffs of breath of an early morning buck. The rising sun cast a pinkish-gold glow through the clouds, making the frost on the grass sparkle. I was sitting outside in my robe when the regal buck appeared, gingerly taking steps out of the woods towards me until he was standing smack dab in that strip of glorious early morning sunlight. His breath was like oversized puffs of smoke. It was so majestic that I said out loud to him, “What message do you have for me?” The answer was obvious—he was there to remind me to stop and enjoy the precious moment of the now.

In the past month I’ve lit gratitude candles for simple things that pop up during the day:

  • The winter sun on my face
  • The swirl of steam rising from my morning coffee
  • Sitting on a park bench with Eric and Lunabelle
  • Pulling carrots out of the ground on New Year’s Eve
  • The childhood good luck marbles a friend gave me when he heard about my own health struggles
  • A phone conversation with Lunabelle’s sister’s mom, a surprise friendship that began with DNA tests for our dogs
  • The swirling and swooping synchronized dance of a flock of red-winged blackbirds flying in front of me as I drove on I-78.

These little moments are the ones that sustain us, providing reassurance that despite the chaos of the world, there is always comfort to be found in the ordinary.

So, with that in mind, dearest New Year, my promise to you is to seek out micro moments of magic each day. My guess is we won’t have enough gratitude candles for all the little things for which we are thankful. But that’s the way it should be.

In short, Year 2024, I think I love you already. Please love me back.

Sincerely,

Kee Kee

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I Flew Across Country and Met My Dog’s Sister

by Kee Kee on May 3, 2023

in Family,Favorite Posts,Lunabelle,New Jersey,serendipity

“Is this weird?”

Our eyes met and we burst out laughing.

The windshield wipers squeaked in response, as if to drive home the point that this was, indeed, very weird.

It was Easter Sunday. My husband, Eric, and I had been in the backseat of an Uber for the past 45 minutes. Our suitcases were in the trunk, and our carry-on bags were wedged between us. We’d been visiting family in Olympia for five rainy days and were heading to a Seattle airport hotel so we could fly out the next morning.

But first, we were making an important pitstop. To meet Fern. The biological sister of our dog, Lunabelle.

We adopted Lunabelle two years ago when she was 4 ½ months old. She had impossibly big ears, earnest eyes, and a zigzag on her tail. Lunabelle was surrendered to a Texas kill shelter when she was only three months old. New Jersey Misfits Canine Rescue, a non-profit in Frenchtown, NJ, stepped in to rescue her and transport her across country.

When we got the call from the rescue that we had been selected as Lunabelle’s new humans, they said they’d be dropping her off at our house in a few hours. Eric and I made a frantic dash to Petco to buy a bed, lots of toys, and kibble for our new puppy. When we got to the checkout lane, I impulsively added an Embark Vet DNA Test to the basket.

A month after we received the DNA results (Malinois—Dutch Shepherd—German Shepherd—American Pit Bull Terrier), Embark notified us that another dog, named Fern, just appeared in the system and was Lunabelle’s sibling. I immediately sent off a message to Fern’s owner, Christy, through Embark’s chat feature. We quickly moved to Facebook messaging so we could watch our little girls grow up on each other’s pages. And after that, we switched to texting, and soon thereafter to USPS with cards and care packages sent between the two sisters.

Fern had a stormier start in life than Lunabelle. Fern was malnourished and starving when she was rescued by 4LeggedFriends in Lubbock, Texas, and ended up being rehomed with Christy and her family outside of Seattle through Project Freedom Ride, a service that connects abandoned dogs from Texas with families in the Pacific Northwest. Fern’s pre-adoption puppy photos just about rip your heart in two because she was basically a walking ribcage.

But now, Lunabelle and Fern are the spitting image of one another, right down to that puppy zigzag tail. They have the same sweet, loveable personalities (except when it’s time to trim nails, in which case they are both melodramatic psychopaths), each have food sensitivities, and they even have similar personality traits like playfully snapping their teeth when they want something.

When Lunabelle received a Christmas care package from Fern, I took the time to tell her all about her sister. I promised her if we ever have the chance, she and her sister will be reunited. Watching them run and leap together with their athletic Malinois grace will be a dream come true. The problem is that we live on opposite coasts. It’s not like we can hop in the car and drive for a few hours to visit, and we aren’t about to stuff Lunabelle in an airplane’s cargo hold. So, for now, we’d have to settle for meeting Fern ourselves.

The interesting thing is that Christy and I have so much more in common than just being dog moms to two long lost sisters. I’ve felt a kindred spirit connection from the very beginning. Would that translate to meeting in person? I was as eager to meet Christy as I was to meet Fern.

♥♥♥

“Hey folks, looks like we’ve arrived. Good luck,” announced the Uber driver. He was laughing. Because, well, why not? This was insane. We were crashing the Easter Sunday gathering of a stranger’s family.

We hauled our suitcases up to the front door as the Uber drove away. I looked at Eric as I pressed the doorbell. “I sure hope this is the right house.”

He smirked as he considered all the luggage at our feet. “We look like we are moving in.”

Christy opened the door. Behind her in the foyer stood her husband, her two sons, and her parents. And right there, weaving between their bodies to get up front as fast as possible, was Fern. Fern! Lunabelle’s sister! Eric’s and my “niece.”

All advice from the experts on how to properly greet a dog promptly went out the window. I didn’t hold my hand out for Fern to sniff. I didn’t speak calmly and softly. Nope. Instead, with a squeal, I dropped to my knees and immediately went for a hug. Fern was a willing participant, greeting us like we were long lost family. Which made perfect sense, given we are her aunt and uncle. It goes without saying that if you are as committed and obsessed with your dogs as all of us standing in Christy’s foyer were, the aunt/uncle/niece labels are perfectly normal.

After the initial love fest with Fern, we moved to the living room. It wasn’t awkward. We laughed, shared stories, and got to know one another. We gave Fern a bag of Easter gifts from Lunabelle, and Christy gave us some gifts that Fern picked out for Lunabelle. And then we moved to the dining room. Christy and her mom had made Pacific Northwest delicacies— huckleberry pies (including a GF one for me) and mixed berry pies. While Eric ate seconds, Christy and I ended up back on the living room floor with Fern.

Before we left, the group of us posed for a “family photo” with Fern. At a glance, it may as well be Lunabelle in that picture. After heartfelt goodbyes to Fern and her family, Christy drove Eric and me to our hotel. I know this is a friendship that will last. And I hope that one day the stars align, and we will figure out a way for the two sisters to finally be reunited. I’m convinced they will remember each other because, for those of us lucky enough to have sisters in our lives, we know that a sister’s love is something you never forget.

 

 

 

 

 

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An Open Letter to The New Year – 2023

by Kee Kee on January 1, 2023

in Happy New Year,Inspiration,Pandemic Life

Dear Year 2023,

I’m writing my twelfth annual open letter to the new year from isolation. Covid finally got me, and because Eric is healthy and we want him to remain that way for his January concert tour, I have barely left the bedroom since Monday. He was at the same holiday party as me 10 days ago—the one where we took off our masks for a photo with Santa Claus and then kept them off to eat and drink. The one where two days later my throat was scratchy, and four days later, I tested positive for the first time. I guess, unlike Eric, I was on Santa’s naughty list.

The problem with the world of Covid (besides spreading sickness and death, disrupting the global supply chain, and separating us from our families), is that in not-so-obvious ways, it is a dangerous world for introverts like me. Overall, I’ve thrived since initial lockdown in 2020. I’ve always needed a lot of time alone to recharge, which is when my creativity and productivity levels soar. Although I love connecting with small groups of friends, the greatest moments of shama/inner peace to be found are when I’m spending time with Eric, hiking with Lunabelle, or hanging with Shama Sanctuary’s resident deer family, Precious, Lolly, and Bridget. The opposite happens when I’m at a loud party with lots of people. So, with the permission of the CDC’s pandemic guidelines, I’ve enthusiastically drawn deeper into myself over the past three years, creating a quiet, but fulfilling world of spirituality and imagination. I’ve been very content. Maybe too content. Because life is starting to feel stagnant.

For me, growth always happens when I get uncomfortable. It’s exhilarating to put myself into unfamiliar surroundings, whether it be people or places. What always follows is a time of retreat into myself to process and integrate. Living fully is like the work of the lungs—inhaling and exhaling—a time of expansion followed by a time of inner sanctuary. The problem is that with this pandemic world, I retreated inward, and stayed there.

The day before my Covid symptoms arrived, I was texting with my friend Alissa, saying that I need to start having more adventures again. I’m not sure yet what that looks like, but it probably means saying yes to a lot more things, more travel, a different phase of work, and maybe something as simple as attending a henna tattoo workshop or new yoga class in a neighboring city.

It’s interesting that as soon as I voiced my intentions to Alissa, my life became even smaller, shrinking to the size of my 16’x18’ bedroom. So, with that in mind, dearest New Year, my promise to you is to step out of my comfort zone and LIVE LARGE in 2023. That is, as soon as my Covid test is negative.

In short, Year 2023, I think I love you already. Please love me back.

Sincerely,

Kee Kee

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The World is Ugly. We are Lucky to Live in It.

by Kee Kee on June 5, 2022

in Favorite Posts,Inspiration,New Jersey,Pandemic Life,shama sanctuary

How is it that we are living through an unthinkable period in world history? If presented with a screenplay that included everything we are experiencing, the former Hollywood executive in me would say that there is no way that all this tragedy—all at once—would be believable in a movie.

We are living through it in real time, so it’s not like I need to point out that the number of mass school shootings—the gunning down of innocent students and teachers in a place that is supposed to be safe—is simply unconscionable.

Nor do I need to talk about climate change with extreme temperatures from polar vortexes to heat domes and droughts, and increasing severe storms such as hurricanes and nor’easters. Just ask my Texas friends who lived through seven days without heat or electricity when the state power grid failed during the February 2021 winter freeze. They lived a dystopian existence as they created bed sheet tents in their houses where family members huddled together hoping their collective body temperatures would keep them warm.

I also don’t need to mention the deadly wildfires sweeping the west, obliterating the homes of two of my friends, and taking the lives of so many others. And then there’s the Supreme Court readying itself to tell women that we have no right to make choices about our own bodies. That goes hand in hand with the partisanship in politics that has divided our country, as well as the nonsensical and dangerous conspiracy theories that have gripped seemingly intelligent people. And of course, there’s Russia’s unprovoked, brutal invasion of Ukraine.

And let’s not forget about the ongoing worldwide pandemic that has killed millions and is now in its third year.

No, I don’t need to mention any of these things because we are all reminded every day that we are living on a frightening, angry, and treacherous planet. Quite simply, the world is an ugly place.

But it is also shockingly, achingly, beautiful.

So much beauty exists, but it’s disguised as the ordinary, so we don’t realize it is there. When the catastrophic nature of the state of the world gets to be too much, all we need to do is stop, take a breath, and open our eyes to the splendor surrounding us.

The woods of Shama Sanctuary (what we call our home) are filled with tulip trees. They are majestic hardwood trees that can stand 90 – 150 feet tall. Most of what we see is the long, stately, straight trunk of the tree, with the leafy branches towering so high overhead that we don’t even think about them. But once a year, around this time, these trees shower us with beauty and drop goblet-shaped tulip flowers all over the yard. The fragrant blooms are a dramatic rainbow of lime-green, yellow, and orange, and it’s awe-inspiring to think about all the hummingbirds, bees, and swallowtail butterflies having pollinator parties so high above—while we are completely oblivious down below.

One morning this week I was sitting outside looking up at one of the tulip trees, thinking about how the good in the world really does outweigh all the bad, but I often forget to look for it. As if to prove my point, a hummingbird flew right up to my red coffee mug, inspecting it to see if it offered any nectar. And this morning, I walked outside to see a fawn taking a nap in the clover. It opened one eye and looked at me, and then settled back into its slumber.

The wonderful, spectacular, glorious part of the world isn’t limited to nature. Just look at all the first responders who regularly put their lives on the line to help others, including teachers who educate our children at the risk of another senseless shooting. Every day in all our communities, neighbors are helping neighbors (just yesterday mine came over with his riding mower to cut our grass because our mower is broken).

The tender acts of love in the world include a man grabbing a box of cereal off the top shelf for a hunched-over elderly woman. It’s in the smile I exchanged with someone I passed on a hike. It can be found in the bagpipe music that a man plays at the state park near our house, and with the mailman who drove up our very long driveway to drop a package at our door instead of leaving it at the street. I experience an act of love every night when my husband washes dishes after dinner, or when he takes our dog out at night in the rain so that I don’t have to.

My goodness, when we really pay attention, it’s clear that every day we are all surrounded by beauty, love, kindness, and grace. If we consciously take moments each day to notice these things, our hearts will be full, and we are less likely to be knocked off our foundation when the next tragic headline hits the newsstand.

A few days ago, I gathered up an armful of tulip flowers and put them in a large bowl of water. It’s a gorgeous centerpiece that reminds me to pause what I’m doing and notice the simple miracles all around me.

The world is a magnificent place, and we are lucky to live in it.

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An Open Letter to The New Year – 2022

January 6, 2022

Dear 2022, Year 2021 was one big whoosh. One would think time would crawl when plodding wearily through the second year of a global pandemic. Yet despite being cloaked in disquiet about the ongoing Covid crisis, numerous climate disasters, and all the horrible things that go along with both, I have gratitude for much of […]

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Lily and Me

October 11, 2021

  Pearl and Maude are the new regulars at our woodsy New Jersey home that we call Shama Sanctuary. Pearl has close-set beady eyes and carries with her an air of superiority. She’s a bully, snorting and chasing off the twin orphans, Precious and Petunia, who are yearning for companionship. To show her dominance she’ll […]

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An Open Letter to the New Year – 2021

January 3, 2021

Dear 2021, You are a mystery. Well actually, every new year is a mystery—what will it bring? But you are a ginormous mystery with the state of the world being as it is. I’ve been looking forward to meeting you for quite some time. But now that you are here, well, right off the bat […]

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Slugs = Shama

December 16, 2020

It’s December and we just completed a final harvest of our pandemic vegetable garden. December! Considering our first planting was in March, that’s one helluva long time in NJ to be eating veggies grown in one’s backyard. We grew rainbow carrots, a medley of radishes, pole beans, bush beans, snow peas, sugar snap peas, kale, […]

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