Water: The rains still fall with the same regularity in December as in most other months. Yet the combination of retreating hours of daylight — just seven days before the solstice — and the diminished grass cover on the ground to hold the water signal the advent of mud season on the farm. My boots are heavier with clay and manure from even the briefest of excursions to the barn or fields.

As the weather turns colder, filling a water trough easily depends on whether I had the foresight to stretch out hoses after the last use so they drained completely. Failing to do so on these below-freezing mornings means finding the hoses frozen solid and the livestock thirsty. Lugging five-gallon buckets of water, one at a time, gives me plenty of time for introspection and kicking my inattentive self.

The garden: Covered with manure and tarps, the south and north gardens await the great reveal in late February, when they’ll be prepped for the coming seasons. Behind the house are a few raised beds with a handful of hardy Italian dandelion greens still holding their own on 22-degree mornings. But the taste at this stage is more bitter than life itself. Between those raised beds and a concrete sidewalk is a marvelous micro-climate where volunteer cilantro still thrives. That most sensitive of herbs has apparently evolved with tough love, in this spot, to grow 10 months out of the year.

Meanwhile, the hoop-house is still brimming with turnip greens, collards, Swiss chard, and Napa cabbages. The snails and slugs are finding the latter delicious. Which, by the act of typing these words, reminds me to slather the Napa with a scoop from the barrel labeled “D.E.” Sounds ominous, I know, but D.E. is simply diatomaceous earth, a go-to organic method for controlling a variety of unwanted diners that feast on my edibles.

Paella and squirrel hunting: Apparently the traditional paella is made with chicken and rabbit. The dish I fixed on Friday night was prepared with chicken and link sausage (and field peas, green beans, and tomatoes). We seldom have rabbit to eat, usually only finding them in the headlights coming up the drive late at night, or while bush-hogging in the fields, or with my hands full in the garden and a shotgun a hundred-yard sprint away.

But squirrel? We have plenty. A friend and I will walk the woods this morning seeking to harvest some for future dinners. I am sure they will make a fine substitute for the rabbit in the next paella dish. And, for the semi-annual sauce piquante d’ecureuil (squirrel sauce piquante), I will need two to three. So, let us call it half a dozen. We just need some cooperative little nut jobs to line up for the feast. Pick your side, my dear readers, and wish one of us luck.

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