the FALL/WINTER share

Hannah and I are super excited to announce our fall/winter CSA share. This will run for 15 weeks, starting in mid-October and ending in February (with a break for Christmas, of course).

For the moment, this will only be available in Frankfort, Versailles, and Lawrenceburg.

But can I talk about how much we love the fall share for a minute? I’m gonna.

We love the fall share! It is, as farmers and foodies, our favorite time in the garden. There will be loads of storage crops like butternut squash, acorn squash, garlic and the best dang sweet potatoes you’ve ever had! Also, lots of greens, green onions, Brussels sprouts, broccoli, cauliflower, cabbage and many other Fall goodies. And of course, we will be delivering all these organic veggies straight to your door.

If you are interested please let us know ASAP as space is limited. You can send us an email at, or call (502) 598 – 8288. Once we have you on our list, you will receive an information packet about the CSA and details about delivery.

The price is $350 for the 15 weeks.

This boils down to an average of $23.33/wk, so slightly less expensive than the summer, if you’re looking to try the CSA in but are intimidated by the summer share.

If you have any questions, don’t hesitate to ask! We can take payments in person, by check, or online HERE.

Spinach, carrots and beets are already starting to germinate in the fields, y’all. Get ready! Hope to see you this fall!

Jesse and Hannah.


As long as I’ve been a writer, the fact that editors don’t get bylines––that is, they don’t get their names attached to the articles they work on as the writers do––has always kind of perplexed me. I write an article as best I can, but then what the editor does to that work is something that, not in a thousand years of trying, I feel could I do on my own. Editors add. They refine. They remove. They adjust the flow. They ask questions I never considered. They clean it up and prepare it for publication. And without them I am pretty sure almost nothing I write would be worth reading. Perhaps nothing anyone writes. Yet it is my name that goes on the article, while the editor remains in relative obscurity.

And in some ways I feel this role of the editor is analogous to the role of women on farms throughout history. Men get the bylines. Men are often called “farmers”, while the women are simply called “wives”. As Audra Mulkern points out in her forthcoming documentary Women’s Work: The Untold Story of America’s Female Farmers, men are the ones whose pictures are taken, while the women can be seen harvesting in the fields behind them, or can’t be seen at all, despite their importance to the farm.

I think about this with Hannah. It is an unending inspiration the amount of work she puts in to refine and shape our farm. She is out there digging, broadforking, planting, harvesting, cleaning, packing, marketing, all of it. Hannah is as critical to our operation as an editor is to an article, but the analogy ends there because she is not my editor, she is the other farmer. And without her, there is no Rough Draft Farmstead.

The story of our food is one written by us both––equally––doing our jobs, using our different skill sets to accomplish something profound together: food, farming, life, and family. On our farm, Hannah deserves a byline with everything we do. There is no such thing as “women’s work” here. There is just a whole lot of farming, and two of us to try and get it all done.




Some photos from around the farm this week.

khaki campbell.

One of our Khaki Campbell ducks – no doubt full of cherry tomatoes stolen from the high tunnel.

hornworm.We have been dealing with A TON of hornworm damage this year, so this is a beautiful sight. (Parasitic wasp eggs on a hornworm).

black widow.Although they always give us a bit of a start, we actually love finding black widows in the garden. They are very beneficial garden spiders and actually not really that dangerous.

fall garden.Fall seedlings next to our edamame row. Can’t believe it is AUGUST already!

honeynut squash.

Our little baby honeynut squash are coming along nicely! They are one of our favorite new crops that we discovered watching “Chef’s Table.” 



canning tomatoes.

It seems some sort of evil joke that the hottest weeks of the year are also the time of the biggest bounty in the garden – meaning I must spend hours and hours in a boiling hot kitchen, standing over a steaming pot,  cooking down tomatoes and canning food for winter. Each time I think I am done, I head out to our wash/pack shed and fine MORE tomatoes. Bins and bins of beautiful, ripe tomatoes. And I cannot let them go to waste. My future self calls out to me through time, telling me how much she is enjoying having tomatoes on a cold, snowy day. I hear her, and I obey. I can some more, I shuck and freeze corn, ball the leftover melons. Thinking and planning ahead, providing for our family and trying to make a little bit of this summer feeling of abundance stretch into those lean winter months.

I am starting to get a little bit burned-out on plain old tomatoes, though. Last night I canned ketchup, and next, I’m thinking about sun-dried tomatoes. How do you preserve your tomatoes? Anybody tried freezing them?



I know who I was before I was a farmer. I know who I was before I was a writer. But I have no idea who I was before I was a father. That person is a stranger to me.

And I remember the moment it happened, the moment I changed. All of the time I now spend staring at my son in awe, all of the intense and overwhelming love (for lack of a more piercingly accurate word) that I heap upon his very existence – that didn’t start when I found out I was going to be a father. Not fully. Fatherhood was still too abstract of an idea. It started when, after several days of intense labor in the cabin with my amazing wife, I caught his tiny frame in my hands. I probably hadn’t cried in ten years, but I bawled that morning. Some of the happiest tears in all of Bugtussle.

However, something changed that day. Something profound and visceral. Whether it was oxytocin––a contact high from the love hormone that mothers create to bond with their children––or overwhelming relief after a long week, I became a new person, forever leaving behind whoever I was before I was papa.

I knew it then, but I’m writing about this now because it still exists in the exact same capacity. Nothing has changed about this change in me. It doesn’t dissipate, it doesn’t go away. When I look at my son running through the sweet corn, or jumping on the couch, or reading a book with his mama, or sleeping––which I spend several minutes a day watching him do––I see him with eyes that are exactly his age. He asked me the other day, “Are you two and a half years old, too, papa?” And I laughed, but I guess I am.

I am two and a half, too, baby boy. Same age as you.

– Jesse.

further and papa.

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