Planting the First Tomatoes and Letting the Day Be Simple
Today was good.
Not loud, not dramatic. Just good.
The kind of day where everything moves like it’s supposed to. Where the tools are where you left them, the wind stays gentle, and the rhythm of digging, planting, watering, and watching feels almost like prayer.
Maybe that’s all a good homestead day really is—just a quiet conversation between you and the land.
Morning: Tomato Time
The tomatoes went in today.
I wasn’t sure I’d get to it this early, but with the forecast holding steady in the upper 70s during the day and no nights dipping below 50°, I decided to take the plunge.
I’ve been hardening the seedlings off all week, moving them from the porch to the cold frame and back again like tiny guests with a curfew. Today, I set them free.
Planted:
- 6 Amish Paste – for sauces and canning
- 4 Cherokee Purple – for slicing and showing off
- 3 Sungolds – sweet as candy
- 2 Romas – because every pantry needs them
- 2 Brandywine pinks – a gamble, but worth it when they come through
Each one went into compost-enriched soil with a scoop of crushed eggshells and a little sprinkle of bone meal. I tucked them in deep—buried up to their necks like baby trees—to help them root strong.
Then I sat back on my heels and watched the sun hit the newly turned earth.
There is something so satisfying about that before moment—when everything’s planted but not yet grown. A garden full of promises.
Brooder Check and Chick Shenanigans
The chicks are in their rowdy phase.
They’ve figured out how to leap onto the edge of the feeder, flap half a foot in the air, and crash-land into the water tray. I now change the bedding twice a day. They are adorable little chaos goblins.
Bullet—the fast one—is still living up to the name. I swear that chick will be the first to figure out how to scale the brooder walls.
I checked heat levels, added a sprinkle of probiotics to the feed, and topped off their grit tray. They’re healthy, strong, and constantly moving. Just like they should be.
I lingered for a minute, letting one hop into my hand. It’s amazing how something so small can feel warm enough to melt your whole heart.
Midday: Garden Strolling and a Bit of Tinkering
After the tomato planting, I took a slow walk through the rest of the garden.
The peas are flowering, the radishes are nearly ready, and the spinach has bounced back like it never met a goat’s teeth.
I thinned the carrots, weeded the beets, and checked the soil moisture in the lower beds. Everything looks… hopeful.
I also spent some time tinkering with the hose splitter. It’s been leaking at the joint near the coop path, and while it’s not a crisis, it’s wasting water and driving me a little bit crazy. A roll of plumber’s tape and a few muttered prayers later, I had it tightened down. Mostly.
I’ll keep an eye on it. As with everything around here, perfect is rare, but functional is sacred.
A Surprise Visit from the Wild
Mid-afternoon, I spotted something unexpected—a pair of swallowtail butterflies dancing over the dill.
They hovered and flitted, spiraling around each other in the sunlight like silk ribbons. I stood stock still, holding my breath, watching them land for just a heartbeat before lifting off again.
They didn’t stay long. Just long enough to remind me that the garden isn’t just for me. It’s for the pollinators, too. For the bees, the beetles, the worms, the winged and wild.
This little patch of soil is a collaboration.
And when I forget that, the land sends something to remind me.
Supper and a Porch Kind of Evening
Dinner tonight was straight from the garden and pantry:
- Sautéed spinach and garlic in olive oil
- A sliced Cherokee Purple from last year’s preserved batch, still vibrant from the jar
- Fresh egg over toast with rosemary from the porch pot
- And for dessert, a little dish of pear preserves from two falls ago
I ate outside on the porch steps, still in my work clothes, dirt under my nails. A soft breeze rolled through, and the chickens murmured bedtime stories under the hackberry.
I sat long after the food was gone. Just… sitting.
No thoughts about what still needs to be done. No pressure to produce.
Just a full belly, a quiet garden, and the feeling that, for today, it was enough.
Final Thoughts
Today didn’t push me. It didn’t throw curveballs. It just welcomed me in.
To plant. To notice. To be part of the unfolding.
Not every day has to be dramatic to be meaningful. Some of the most important ones whisper instead of shout. They remind you to pause. To smile at a butterfly. To savor the smell of tomato leaves on your skin.
Today, I planted more than just vegetables. I planted peace. Presence. Gratitude.
And I’ll tend those things, too.
Until tomorrow—
Amanda @ Wister Creek