Town Trips, Dehydrated Herbs, and a Pantry That Feels Like Peace
Some Saturdays are for catching up.
Not the frantic kind of catching up where you’re racing to finish a to-do list, but the gentle kind—where you let the rhythm of the day carry you from task to task like a slow river.
Today was that kind of Saturday.
I didn’t do anything flashy. No new fences, no animal drama (for once), no storm clouds threatening to rewrite the plan. But I moved the needle. I stacked the jars. I prepared.
And that, in its own quiet way, feels holy.
Morning: Market Run and a Porch Conversation
I don’t go to town often. Once every couple weeks, usually. And even then, I try to make it count. Fuel, feed, flour, coffee, soap. Maybe a treat if the budget allows.
Red Oak was busy today—everyone out chasing sunshine and supplies. I hit the co-op early, beat the crowd, and had time for a quick stop at the little Saturday produce stand near the edge of town. Mostly strawberries and spinach today, but I picked up a pint of local honey and a bundle of early garlic scapes that smelled like green fire.
As I was loading the truck, Mrs. Landry from the feed store stopped to chat. We stood there leaning on the tailgate, sipping coffee from travel mugs and talking about ticks, tomato trellising, and the Great Chicken Shortage of 2020 like it was war lore.
She’s been homesteading longer than I’ve been alive, and her advice always comes laced with humor and humility.
Before we parted, she handed me a mason jar of dried lemon balm from her own patch and said, “For when your thoughts get too loud.”
It’s already steeping on the counter as I write this.
Midday: Dehydrator Humming, Kitchen Windows Open
Back home, I unloaded the truck, checked the coop, and took a quick peek at the garden. Everything looked good. The tomatoes are standing tall. The calendula from Grace is blooming already—bright marigold-yellow against the dark soil.
I decided it was the perfect day to tackle my herb rack. I’ve been snipping mint, thyme, and oregano all week, drying small bundles near the window, but today I finally brought out the dehydrator and did a real run.
In went:
- Lemon balm
- Spearmint
- Oregano
- Chive blossoms
- A small batch of stinging nettle I foraged near the creek last week
The kitchen smelled like a cross between a wild garden and a sleepy apothecary. The dogs curled up on the cool tile. The back window was open. Wind rustled the curtain like a breath.
I felt more grounded than I have in weeks.
Afternoon: Pantry Deep Dive
While the herbs dried, I decided to take inventory of the pantry.
Every few months I do this—not just to check for what’s low, but to remind myself what’s already here. It’s easy to forget about the pear preserves tucked in the back, or the pickled okra from two seasons ago, or the last jar of roasted tomato sauce labeled “July 2023.”
There’s a kind of peace in seeing rows of food you grew and preserved with your own hands. Shelf after shelf of enough.
I reorganized, labeled a few jars I’d lazily skipped in the fall rush, and made a list of what I’d like to can this season:
- Salsa (always need more than I think)
- Dilly beans
- Pickled garlic
- Herb-infused vinegars
- A new batch of elderberry syrup
The list is long, but that’s the joy of it—each jar a promise.
Evening: Supper and Stillness
Dinner tonight was built from the pantry:
- Tomato and garlic sauce over homemade noodles
- A side of garden greens wilted in olive oil
- Sourdough toast with last year’s blueberry jam
- And yes, a cup of Mrs. Landry’s lemon balm tea
It was one of those meals that feels like a thank you. To past-you. To the land. To the quiet work done when no one’s watching.
I ate it on the porch, feet up on the railing, watching the last light slip behind the trees.
A barred owl called from somewhere deep in the woods. The goats shifted in their pen. The chicks chirped like lullabies.
And for a few long minutes, I let myself do nothing.
Just breathe. Just listen. Just be.
Final Thoughts
Today wasn’t about big moves.
It was about slow ones. The kind that build toward something sturdy and lasting. A stocked pantry. A tidy shelf. A tea that settles the spirit.
Out here, there’s always something to do—but not everything needs to feel urgent. Some days are about preparing in peace. About remembering why you started. About laying up stores for both body and soul.
So I’ll keep drying herbs, labeling jars, and boiling down the days into something shelf-stable and sweet.
And tomorrow? Maybe something unexpected. But tonight, I rest in the quiet work.
Until tomorrow—
Amanda @ Wister Creek