Healing Food & Organic Farming: Why the Farm Doesn't Do Resolutions

The Heavy Air of Beginning

It is New Year's Eve, and the air feels heavy with expectation.

Not the weight of burden, but the kind of heaviness you feel on a cold, foggy morning when you step outside and the world feels soft and close. The kind of heaviness that comes before renewal.

We are bombarded with messages about "New Year, New You"—overhaul your life, fix your habits, change everything when the clock strikes midnight.

It can be paralyzing.

But then I think of my morning walk across the farm in the fog, the damp earth soft beneath my feet, the smell of dormant soil rich with possibility, the frost-kissed herbs exhaling their last breath of the year. And I realize something: On the farm, we don't believe in overnight transformations.

We believe in the slow, sacred work of restoration.

We believe in resilience.

Whether I am looking at a field that needs to be healed, or looking at my own health journey on the Autoimmune Protocol (AIP), I have learned that the most profound "better" doesn't happen in a giant leap. It happens in the quiet, intentional space between one breath and the next.

It happens with one next right choice at a time.

One healing meal.

One shovel of living compost.

One deep breath of oxygen filling your lungs, flooding your body, mind, and spirit with what it's been thirsting for.

This is what I've learned after a year of hard things—a year that asked me to let go of what I cannot change, to muster courage to change what I can, and to be wise enough to know the difference.

Maybe Auld Lang Syne had it right: some things belong to last year, and healing is in accepting their departure, not fighting it. I think these are the quiet days of meditating and paying attention to the glimpses of God's grace in our everyday walking around life. The "He is dwelling" with us all through the year not just in the Christmas "with-ness" but in the cold, short, brown-ness days of longing for spring.

So as we cross into 2026, I am focusing on simplicity. I am focusing on healing—from the soil up. I am focusing on gratitude and praying for love, hope and joy and for peace... definitely peace.

You Cannot Heal with Empty Food

A carrot grown in dead, sandy soil is just orange fiber. But a carrot grown in rich, dark, biologically active compost? That is medicine. That is resurrection in root form. It's packed with the minerals and trace elements your body is screaming for—the very language your cells use to heal.

I learned this lesson in the most unexpected way, and it changed everything about how we see what we do.

A woman came into the Fant Farm Organics office not long ago—her second visit after ordering our compost. She had something she wanted to show us. Out came her phone, and on that screen were two pictures side by side. One: the carrots she'd been growing in Florida's sandy soil for years, struggling, small, almost apologetic in their tininess. The other: the carrots from her garden now, amended with our compost.

They were massive. Glorious. The kind of carrots that make you understand why people say "farm fresh" with reverence. She had tears in her eyes. Not tears of sadness, but tears of amazement. Tears of vindication—all that effort she'd been pouring into sandy soil, and finally, finally, she could see the result she'd been dreaming of.

The contrast between those two pictures—the small, struggling carrot and the abundant, thriving one—was so stark, so undeniable, that it broke something open in us. It wasn't just about a vegetable growing bigger. It was about what becomes possible when you change the foundation.

"The peace of good agriculture is the peace of fulfilled bodies and satisfied spirits."— Wendell Berry

That's what we saw on her face. That peace. That fulfillment. That's why we do what we do at Fant Farm Organics. We aren't just making "dirt." We are making nutrition. We are making possibility.

We are participating in the sacred cycle where the earth feeds us, and we steward the earth in return. It's the ecosystem working as God intended—everything connected, nothing wasted, community in its purest form.

And yes, sometimes people cry when they see what becomes possible.

Since the farm is in its "brown" season—that quiet dormancy that feels like waiting—I am craving roots and warmth. There is something deeply grounding about winter cooking. It slows you down. It asks you to honor the vegetables that have been living beneath the soil, storing their sweetness through the cold months.

My go-to strategy lately has been building what I call the "AIP Farm Bowl"—a meal that tastes like a cold morning walk, smells like earth and fresh herbs, and heals you with every bite.

It isn't just a meal; it's a ritual of intention, of layering flavors and textures, of connecting your body to the soil that grew what you're eating.

Here is my protocol for a meal that heals. That soothes the gut. That wraps me in a healing comfort after a year of extreme stress and letting the lack of "enough time" rob my body and spirit of all of the essential things.

The Healing Food Recipe: "Life from the Soil" Bowl

A study in textures: The rustic char of roots meets the cool silk of coconut yogurt and the bright, almost shocking acidity of a creamy lemon basil sauce. It's everything you need.

The Mise en Place: Honoring the Roots

Start by selecting your roots with intention. I use:

• Sweet potatoes (about 2 medium ones, roughly 8 oz)—look for ones with deep orange flesh; they're packed with beta-carotene.

• Parsnips (2-3 medium, about 8 oz)—their natural sweetness deepens when roasted.

• Tri-colored carrots (6-8 small whole ones, about 6 oz)—leave them whole so you can see how they grew.

• Cauliflower rice (about 3 cups, fresh or frozen).

• Grilled chicken (4-6 oz per serving, or your protein of choice).

• Fresh asparagus (6-8 spears, for snap and brightness).

• Coconut yogurt (2-3 tablespoons per bowl). I use Coco June for dairy free AIP.

• High-quality olive oil (Florida Olive Oil Company or similar—this matters).

• Fresh thyme, rosemary, and oregano (a small handful total—about 1 tablespoon of mixed herbs).

• 2 fresh cloves of garlic, minced finely (this is the depth).

• Cracked black pepper and flaky sea salt (to taste).

  
  

Wash the roots gently, honoring their shapes. I slice the sweet potatoes and parsnips into thick medallions—about ½ inch—thick enough to hold their bite and caramelize properly. But the tri-colored carrots? I leave them whole. There is something beautiful about seeing the vegetable as it grew, about not diminishing it unnecessarily.

An Anointing: The Oil Bath

Place all sliced and whole roots into a large Ziploc bag. This simple tool creates a perfect result every time.

Pour in a generous glug of olive oil—about 3-4 tablespoons total. Add your minced garlic—those 2 fresh cloves, minced finely. This will add a beautiful depth and richness to the roasted vegetables. Followed by your handful of fresh, woody herbs: thyme, rosemary, and oregano. These should be tender enough to tear slightly between your fingers but sturdy enough to hold their shape through roasting.

Finish with a few cracks of black pepper and a generous pinch of flaky salt—not table salt, which clumps and concentrates. Flaky salt distributes evenly and tastes cleaner.

The Massage

Seal the bag and toss it. Then—and this is important—massage the oil and herbs into the vegetables. Use your hands to work the oil into every crevice until every piece is glistening and coated, until the colors deepen slightly from the oil and the herbs begin to release their fragrance. The garlic will distribute throughout, promising something deeper in the final bite.

This small act of intentionality changes everything. You're not just prepping vegetables; you're preparing your medicine.

The Air Fryer Method

Setup: Preheat air fryer to 400°F for 3-5 minutes. Line the basket with parchment if you'd like (it makes cleanup easier).

1. First Pass (10 minutes): Lay the vegetables in a single layer in the air fryer basket. Don't crowd them—they need space for the heat to circulate and create that beautiful char. Cook for 10 minutes at 400°F. The edges will begin to blister and brown slightly. You'll start to smell the rosemary and thyme deepening, the garlic turning sweet and mellow.

2. The Shake (10 more minutes): Open the basket carefully (the steam will rise), give everything a good shake and turn the roots. This ensures even caramelization. Cook for another 10 minutes. You are looking for deep caramelization—that golden-brown, almost mahogany char where the natural sugars of the root vegetable have caramelized against the heat. The edges should be crispy, the centers tender. The garlic will be soft and sweet, almost melted into the oil.

   
   

The Canvas

While the roots roast, prepare your canvas. Take your cauliflower rice and dress it simply: a light drizzle of high-quality olive oil, a small pinch of salt, and a few cracks of pepper. It doesn't need much; it just needs to be awakened.

Taste it. Adjust. It should taste clean and pure, like you're eating the essence of the vegetable, not a platform for other things.

The Lemon Basil Sauce (The Star)

While the kitchen fills with the scent of roasted rosemary—that smell that says "healing is happening"—you're about to create liquid gold.

Ingredients:

• 1 fresh clove of garlic, minced finely (this is the secret depth—different from the roasted garlic, this is bright and alive).

• Zest from ½ a lemon (about ¼ teaspoon, grated with a microplane)—this is crucial; the oils in the zest add a brightness that juice alone cannot achieve.

• Fresh lemon juice (about 2 teaspoons, squeezed by hand—feel the resistance, know you're getting every drop).

• Fresh basil leaves (about ¼ cup, roughly chopped).

• High-quality olive oil (about ¼ cup).

• Pinch of salt.

The Method: Creating the Emulsion

Start with your olive oil in a small bowl. Add the minced garlic first—let it sit in the oil for a moment, allowing its pungency to soften and blend. Then add the lemon zest, stirring gently. The zest oils will begin to disperse through the oil, turning it slightly golden and fragrant. Add the fresh lemon juice—those 2 precious teaspoons, squeezed from the lemon by hand. Stir. Now add your roughly chopped basil. Stir it all together.

Here's the magic moment: Using a fork or small whisk, I use a hand held blender emulsifier, emulsify everything together. What you're doing is breaking down the basil further while encouraging the oil and acid to bind together into something creamy and cohesive—not separated, but married.

Watch as it transforms. The sauce becomes thicker, creamier, more luxurious. It's no longer thin vinaigrette—it's a proper sauce, silky on your tongue, the basil and garlic suspended throughout, the lemon zest giving it texture and brightness, the olive oil making it coat every bite.

It should taste like summer in the middle of winter. Bright. Sharp. Alive.

"In every act of eating, we are either participating in the cycle of life or the cycle of death."— Wendell Berry

With this sauce, with these vegetables grown in living soil, with this intention, you are choosing life. You are choosing healing.

The Assembly: Where It All Comes Together

1. The Bed: Spoon the dressed cauliflower rice into a shallow bowl—the kind where everything can mingle.

2. The Heat: Layer the hot, charred root medallions and whole carrots on top. Add your grilled chicken and fresh asparagus for protein and snap. Everything should still be warm, steam rising slightly.

3. The Cool: This is where the magic happens. Place a generous dollop of coconut yogurt (about 2-3 tablespoons) right on the hot, savory potatoes. Watch it begin to melt.

4. The Finish: Drizzle the lemon basil sauce over everything. The heat of the roasted potatoes melts the cool yogurt into the herbaceous oil, creating something entirely unexpected—a creamy, savory, bright sauce that coats every bite. It's tangy and rich and fresh all at once. It's the taste of healing.

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Take a moment before you eat. Breathe in. Taste the earth in every bite. This is healing.

Bonus: The "Nothing Wasted" Velvet Stew

Here is the beautiful part about the Bowl method: The Leftovers.

If you have leftover roasted roots, chicken, and that magical lemon basil sauce, don't let them sit in the refrigerator—not because you're wasteful, but because you're stewarding. The next day, transform them into a stew that tastes like a warm hug, like coming inside from the cold and being restored.

The Transformation

Ingredients:

• Leftover roasted roots and vegetables (about 1½ cups).

• Leftover grilled chicken (about 4-6 oz, torn into pieces).

• Homemade bone broth (about 3 cups—this is crucial; store-bought will work, but the depth of homemade is worth it).

• 1 can of high-quality coconut milk (13-14 oz).

• Salt and pepper to taste.

• Optional: fresh herbs for garnish (thyme, basil, or parsley).

The Secret Ingredient: The Coconut Cream Trick

This is the magic that makes this work without dairy—and it's so simple it feels like cheating.

Take a can of high-quality coconut milk that has been chilling in the refrigerator for at least a few hours (ideally overnight). When coconut milk sits cold, the cream naturally rises and solidifies slightly at the top, separating from the thinner coconut water below.

Carefully open the can and skim that thick, white "cream" off the very top—you should get about ¾ to 1 cup of it. Leave the water below undisturbed (save it for another use, or discard it).

The Method

Heat your bone broth gently in a pot over medium heat until it's warm but not boiling. Add your leftover roasted vegetables and chicken. Let them warm through for about 3-5 minutes, stirring occasionally.

Add the leftover lemon basil sauce—this brightens everything and ties it back to yesterday's meal, creating continuity and intention.

Now, here's the final step: Whisk the coconut cream into the hot broth, stirring gently so it integrates smoothly. The roasted veggies will begin to dissolve slightly, creating a creamy base. The lemon basil sauce dances through, the coconut cream turns everything into a velvet chowder.

Taste. Adjust salt and pepper. This stew should taste like comfort and healing—like your body knows exactly what it needs.

Why This Matters

This is the cycle that moves me most deeply.

Just like on the farm—what feeds us one day feeds the next.

Nothing is wasted. Everything connects.

The carrot that nourished you yesterday becomes the broth that heals you today.

The kitchen waste becomes compost.

The compost becomes soil.

The soil becomes food.

The food becomes us, becomes energy, becomes life.

This is what the ecosystem looks like when we participate with intention. This is what community and culture look like.

The New Year's Lesson: The Next Right Choice

I know you are itching to plant your own spring garden to grow these kinds of vegetables. You want "Newly Improved Soil" right now. You can feel it—that pull toward creating something that heals and nourishes. Maybe you've even tried, in sandy soil, watching the struggle. And maybe what you need to see is that picture on a phone—the before and after. The proof that change is possible.

But take a lesson from the kitchen. You don't make the stew instantly. You prep the ingredients. You make choices today that compound into tomorrow's healing.

Use this "Winter Window" to make the next right choice for your land.

The microbes in your soil are dormant, sleeping like bears in winter—but they're not dead. They're waiting. They need about 6 weeks to wake up and establish the fungal networks that will feed your plants come spring.

If you top-dress your beds with living, aged compost now—in these cold, quiet weeks—by the time real spring hits, your soil will be supercharged.

The mycelium will have formed the highways through which nutrients travel. Your plants will drink in not just water, but life itself.

We are currently releasing our "Spring Reserve" Compost Batch. It's fully stabilized and teeming with microscopic life—billions of organisms working in harmony, the way an ecosystem should.

This isn't just dirt. This is potential. This is healing waiting to happen.

Make the choice to prep today, so you can thrive tomorrow.

This is how resilience works. Not in the grand gesture, but in the small, faithful act. Not in the New Year's resolution that exhausts you by January 15th, but in the quiet decision to do the next right thing, again and again, until those small choices compound into transformation.

A Closing Prayer From Our Family To Yours

As you step into 2026, I invite you to step outside into the cold, the fog, the heaviness of beginning.

Feel the ground beneath your feet.

Stand with your arms out wide. Breathe deeply. Call out to God. Let's call this prayer when the words do not come easily, the faith of breathing in and out, You are the builder, I am the dweller. The lifting of arms toward the sky, just like the trees, calling out to God to save us.

Let the oxygen fill your lungs, let healing flood your body, mind, and spirit.

Practice the languages of love and grace and forgiveness one conversation at a time and if you fail this morning, stoop low, pick up your cross and practice some more. Make sure love is all around us, in our homes, our lives and pray it over our enemies because remember this always... love your neighbor, love your enemy... no fine print.

Let's make 2026 the year we heal—one choice at a time. The year that allows that grace of God to usher your toward your own becoming. The year that blesses all the versions of you that carried you to this moment... even the ones you bid farewell.

In all of this, may you learn to love yourself as God loves you and then to love others in that same way. May you learn to turn toward the light and away from the hate and anger that seems to consume so much right now. May you love the the animals and planet with the same grace and light in order to be a good steward of the wholeness of life.

One bowl. One shovel of compost. One deep breath. One connection to the ecosystem that made us and sustains us, if we'll only tend to it with care and intention. One connection to someone in our community. One meal served to another. One meaningful conversation with a neighbor. One soft touch from our hands to the animals and life around us.

Because this is the truth: You are not separate from your community, the planet, the eco-system or the soil. You are an expression of it. What we grow in the earth, we grow in ourselves. And when someone brings you a picture of carrots—small struggling ones next to massive thriving ones—and there are tears in their eyes because they can finally see what's possible, you'll know why we do this.

Let's grow something beautiful.

Happy New Year from our family at Fant Farm Organics.

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