Out With a Bang
20 hours ago
9 min read
September 21, 2026
Take a lap around the Tin House, and you’d never know our days are numbered. Every surface is crowded with tomatoes and winter squash, and managing the flow of people and food feels like a big game of Tetris. Take a lap around the fields, however, and the signs are there. Subtle, perhaps, but there. High grass in low-traffic lanes. Piles of patched irrigation lines waiting to be hauled to the curb. Strawberry plants submerged beneath flowering galinsoga. The plants will be fine, but allowing weeds to co-exist with cultivated crops is a surrender of sorts.
A not-so-subtle sign of our impending exit is the emergence of perennial “meadows” all around the farm. As expected, watching them grow has uplifted my spirit through the sadness of the shutdown. And seeding them has stretched my brain as all new tasks do. In 20 years of cover cropping, I’ve only seeded by hand—no grain drill, no broadcast seeder, just me and a bucket, tossing seed up and down the rows, then disking it in with the tractor. Mechanical seeders have the advantage of being more precise and less labor-intensive, but the setup and fine-tuning is only worth it if there is a large area to be seeded. My mostly-manual approach, on the other hand, means I can be quick to snap up an opportunity—however small—to toss some seed. Usually it’s a mix of oats and peas. Clover requires a separate pass, owing to the much smaller seed. The meadow, however, includes eight different species—2 grasses (oats and timothy), 2 broadleaves (buckwheat and tillage radish), and 4 clovers (Dutch white, medium red, alsike, and crimson). So a specialized seeder that can spread multiple types at once would come in pretty handy right now. But I’m not investing in new equipment at this eleventh hour. Instead, I’ve worked out a 4-pass method, based on seed size. Pass #1 includes oats, buckwheat, and tillage radish—large-seeded, fast-germinating annuals that put on a lot of growth in the fall and act as a nurse crop for slower-germinating perennials. Pass #2 includes large-seeded clovers—medium red (short-lived) and crimson (annual). Pass #3 includes small-seeded clovers—alsike (short-lived) and Dutch white (perennial). Pass #4 is exclusively for timothy, a small-seeded perennial that will become the dominant specie over time. Four passes means a lot of extra walking—and plenty of time for observations I wouldn’t make from the tractor. The oats and broadleaves, as expected, are big are easy to identify. The timothy is small and fine where it’s visible at all, so hopefully I’m not burying it too deep with the disks. And I’m just guessing with the clovers—some are big, some are small, but they’re definitely there. And I’m having a lot of fun imagining what they’ll look like in full bloom next year.
Tis the season of hauling. With our summer apprentices back at school, I’ve been recruiting CSA volunteers via weekly emails. The response has been just what I need—enough hands to get the job done without people tripping over each other or left standing around. First, we cleared and cleaned the garlic from the greenhouse to make way for the onions. Next we tackled the winter squash, which, thanks to all the rain, arrived at the Tin House caked in mud. Volunteers came prepared with their own towels, and now the squash is squeaky clean and safely stored. Out in the fields, Tim Ging, Glenn Aldridge, and “Johnny Breads” Dell’Aquila helped haul potatoes which, much like the squash, exited the fields caked in mud. Extra thanks goes to Tim, the official “Potato Shaker,” who returned days later, after the mud had dried, to shake the excess dirt from the crates. And the potato journey doesn’t end there! Another shout-out goes to Phil Salem and Brian Cohen, who were roped into hauling Tim’s shaken-out crates from Point A to Point B during the Saturday farm stand. Why haul 500 lbs. of potatoes by yourself Friday night when you can strike a damsel-in-distress pose Saturday morning? I have nothing to prove, and these manly men were happy to help.
On-call assistance is an advantage we were counting on in this year of scaled back staff. CSA volunteers helped launch the farm in 2008, and they helped Dan keep it going from 2009-2012, when I was home nursing babies. At some point, one of our most devoted volunteers, Donna Sinetar, cautioned us against leaning so heavily on free labor, and because she was right, we began a deliberate shift towards paid staff. But in 2019, when Steve Cecchini got sick and Peter Notarnicola was away on sabbatical, it was CSA members who came to the rescue. Then came the pandemic, and with it a flood of new customers and job-seekers. From 2020-2025, we operated at full capacity, with 3-4 full-time farmers, 3-4 part-time farmers, and limited need for volunteers. To retain staff, we guaranteed a consistent, 40-hour workweek May through October, even though our actual labor needs follow a bell curve. By last summer, however, I knew my days as head grower were coming to an end. I also knew I couldn’t plan for anything beyond the day-to-day while operating at full capacity. So I hit the brakes the best way I knew how—by seeding two fields in winter rye and hairy vetch, effectively taking them out of the spring/summer rotation for 2026. From there I proceeded to plan for a scaled-back season. Only 2 part-time staff. Fewer cash crops. A delayed start. But still, more than what our skeleton crew could handle. So I accepted help when it was offered, and cobbled together a student crew to get us through the summer months. Now that the kids are back at school, I'm pulling that trusty ace from my back pocket—the CSA members just one email away. Almost every Wednesday for the past several weeks, Tim, Kathy, Jeff, Geri, Bryan, Judy, Glenn, John, Lisa, Mike S., Mike H., and Susan have joined me either in the fields or the Tin House to pick, carry, or clean whatever the to-do list calls for. After 20 years of running this CSA, I’m not at all surprised. And just as touched as ever.
To what do we owe these amazing CSA members who have given so much through the years? More than vegetables, I think. If there’s one thing members consistently request, it's a dinner in the fields. We hosted many potlucks in the early years, usually at the summer solstice. The crew scrounged picnic tables and benches from around the OBVR park, and members brought their own drinks, place settings, and homemade dishes to share. Nothing fancy, but definitely memorable. Then life got busier, the contours of the farm changed, and potlucks fell by the wayside. Nevertheless, the requests kept coming. When it became apparent that this would be Restoration Farm’s last season, I decided to host one final potluck for CSA members, plus farm crew and volunteers past and present. Last Sunday, we pulled it off. It was challenging in all the predictable and unpredictable ways—limited parking, passing thunderstorms, swarms of mosquitoes. Yet with the forecast calling for afternoon sun, we proceeded on faith. We rented tables and chairs. Maryellen made citronella candles to keep the skeeters at bay. Judy and I harvested flowers Saturday evening, during a beautiful golden hour. Sunday morning, while it rained steadily, Donna Sinetar, Lesly Steinman, and Susan Salem reunited in the Tin House and arranged bouquets with Judy. The rain tapered to a drizzle by 1pm, at which point Jackie, Nancy, and I, along with Phil and Jesse Salem, headed to the fields to set up tablecloths and centerpieces. By 2pm, the drizzle petered out and guests started making their way to the field, half by farm shuttle, the other half on foot. Dan stood guard at the back gate to redirect traffic for a nearby wedding, but he joined everyone in the fields by 2:45, just as the sun emerged and people uncovered their dishes. The food, as expected, was out of this world. There was too much for one person to sample, but I loved Helen’s zucchini quiche and Lucia’s Southern biscuits. And whoever made the tiramisu, please reveal yourself—and the recipe! In fact, the variety of the dishes inspired Mindy and Neil Silberg to float the idea of a Restoration Farm community cookbook. If you want to collaborate, send an email and I’ll put you in touch.
To the folks who stayed home because of the weather, especially the families with small children, I completely understand. You were missed! All in all, though, there was a tremendous turnout—about 150 people, judging by the number of chairs. I couldn’t be happier with the day, and I’m still riding the high, one week later. If there’s a better way to capture the essence of the farm, and go out with a bang, I don’t know what it is.
Once more, the final word goes to someone else. This time it’s Molly Lebolt, whose parents, Dave and Elana, joined the CSA in 2010, when Molly and her brother, Jesse, were just 4 years old. Molly is now a junior majoring in Environmental Studies at Bryn Mawr College. Here's her take on the Restoration Farm community…
Thanks for reading
—Caroline
One of the clearest memories I have of Restoration Farm is not of the fields or the farm stand, but of the long dirt road between them. When I was little, walking down the road to get to the fields felt like an insurmountable hurdle. I have hazy memories of snap peas, berry picking, and garlic, but the trip down the road is what I remember in perfect detail. From the big puddle at the beginning of the path, to the dusty bit where the trees opened to reveal the fields, and back up the hill. I remember the tire treads in the dried mud, and how walking on the grassy strip in the middle made me feel so tall. At four years old, with only a few feet to my name, every trip down the path felt like a lengthy journey through the wilderness.
The fields at the end of the path were a whole other world to me – a land of endless vegetables, sheep, and the occasional tanks in the distance. The farm felt so far removed from the suburbia that I knew Long Island to be. In the fields, I learned to respect the mysterious forces of nature. I witnessed tiny seeds become plants with just sunlight and water (and of course proper pH,
nutrient levels, and plenty of other things I did not know about). This was the magic of my childhood: I learned I was subject to these same elements – the hot sun, the quenching rain. Being connected to the farm kept us in tune with nature. Our meals were determined by what produce we brought home from the farm, changing by season. My favorite foods to this day remain CSA pickup meals: kale chips and Caponata (called Papanata in our family). To me, our farm produce meals were the most delicious – I didn’t care about sustainability, and I certainly had never heard of economics.
Last October, I had the chance to go to Germany with a program I was enrolled in at Bryn Mawr College: a three-course interdisciplinary semester focused on climate change. Our visit to the Green City of Freiburg included a stop at a local CSA, where we spoke to the lead farmer about
the sustainability of the CSA model. As he spoke to us about the logistical choices and coordination necessary to maintain the CSA, I found myself thinking about Restoration Farm, and the system that had seemed so natural to me as a child. What had seemed like the simplest economic model in my childhood is radically subversive in a consumerist world. As an Environmental Studies major, I am discovering that many of my values and interests have grown from seeds planted in my childhood, a pun of which I am very aware. It seems I crossed an ocean only to find that the core of sustainability I had been searching for was the very one I grew up with: a strong community. In my studies, I repeatedly find my way back to this same theme. Across the world, it seems that community is the most resilient force against increasingly scary threats. It is a strong sense of hyperlocal community that allows for adaptability and agency when it appears impossible. When I look at these small pockets of agrarian community, CSAs and otherwise, I’m reminded that we are not as divided as we are led to believe.
Now, when I visit the farm, the path to the fields is just a quick jaunt through the woods, and I can’t imagine how I ever thought it was a steep walk back to the farmstand. It’s easy to say that to begin to repair our relationship with the environment, all we need is a little community, but in practice we know that isn’t a straightforward path. There are constant limits to our abilities to
maintain communities; we are facing them now as we say goodbye to Restoration Farm. However, our community is one suited for adaptation, along with so many more like-minded groups. The path forward seems incredibly long right now, not to mention hilly, muddy, and lined with ruts, but experience leads me to believe that it’s all relative. Right now, maybe we are just toddlers trudging on through the woods, trusting that something better lies ahead.
—Molly Lebolt
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