About once a quarter, a local magazine or blogger comes to the farm to do a story about Will. Don’t get me wrong, I love my husband, but this doesn’t happen because he is just so amazing. This happens because people love food, chefs are now celebrities and local food, especially farm to table, is the food writer’s multiple orgasm. And it just so happens that Will is the only chef in town who runs his own farm.

I say all this with affection. After all, wouldn’t I love to be a food writer? Heck yeah! Doesn’t the press do wonders for our restaurants? Absolutely. And we’ve had a chance to meet some really fantastic, passionate, interesting people. Also, we do believe in this whole crazy food to table notion in the first place, so it’s fun to play expert on our favorite topic.

However.

This little life of ours, while atypical, is not unheard of. This is the age of the farmoir – the epic tale of someone dropping the shackles of conventional life, trading in the stresses of city living to get all Thoreau, only to find themselves struggling to relate to their rural neighbors, unable to keep farm animals from their inexplicable mission to die despite all good intentions, and the realization that farming and gardening aren’t as similar as they seemed back in the days before the great escape to the country. It is the stuff of too many books and blogs and NYTimes trend pieces to bother with example links.

Which is only to say I get a little self conscious when it comes to being interviewed, but even more so when someone is here to interview Will and I’m in the background. Do I bake a loaf of cherry bread to be welcoming, or is that too wife-y? Right now I’m writing this post instead of knitting on the back porch while the baby naps because wouldn’t it just look so staged if the photographer noticed? Even if I’m only eight rows short of finishing that sweater? While cleaning up the kitchen this morning, I put away the box of store bought cereal but left the jar of homemade granola on the counter and it felt a little dishonest, but I didn’t hide the bananas so there’s that. I’m wearing jeans, but they are my nice jeans.

Ah the fears of conforming to my nonconformity. I can only imagine what someone in a much more public job must go through – the poor musician, always having to look cool.