Grown under the canopy. A small farm, three crops, one ridge.
A purple-streaked hardneck with a clean, sweet heat. Planted in October on the autumn equinox; lifted in July when the scape curls back twice. Braided in August in the open barn.
Our focal flower. Cool whites and warm creams on long, strong stems. Cut at first light and conditioned in deep cold water — late July through the first frost.
One hundred twenty-five trees, mostly Jefferson, planted across the ridge. Sun-cured on canvas in the open barn. Whole, in shell. Sorted twice by hand. Crack your own.
The grove opens first. Catkins drop a fine yellow dust along the lower rows and the bees come in before the apple does. We let the understory hold the cool, and we walk the rows slow enough to listen for it.
Garlic scapes curl by the second week of June. The dahlias are still tucked. Five acres, one ridge, three crops kept honest by the same pair of hands.
We grow what the ridge will hold honestly — and then we sell it the week it's ready.
We don't keep a public stand. The farm is a working five-acre site on the rise above the Fraser — come walk the rows, choose your own dahlias, lift a braid of garlic, or pick up an order of cured hazelnuts at a time that suits us both.