Winter pares the farm down to its essentials. Each morning I step into the cold barn where quiet work and the soft bleating of sheep replace the rush of the house. The ridge turns inward in January, and flavor deepens underground. These cold mornings become part of the lamb long before harvest — the first notes of terroir.

It wasn’t until my wife and I started talking seriously about kids that I paid real attention to food. I went looking for what actually builds a human being well… nutrient dense meals, real animal fats, egg yolks, organ foods, deep colored berries. Then I stood in the grocery aisle and realized how hard it was to find any of it with a story you could trust. That is why we started Ridgemeade… and why I’m relieved the new food pyramid is finally pointing back toward protein, whole foods, and breakfast that keeps you steady until lunch.

The year rarely begins at midnight. Out on the ridge, it starts when something in you turns…when you stop scattering yourself and come home to your own life. Winter teaches it the hard way…through quiet work, thin light, and the invisible preparation that makes real renewal possible.

The first week of December tightens the world a little… pastures settle into straw and shadow, animals move with earned economy, and the kitchen shifts toward food that actually sustains rather than performs. Winter strips the farm to its frame and leaves the essentials exposed… frost, breath, woodsmoke, the quiet rhythm of work that never really stops. This is the season when meals deepen, gatherings simplify, and attention returns to what endures. If a Christmas ham belongs on your table, now is the moment… they won’t last long.

I ran a small experiment with the day’s headlines, then flipped the narrative to see what changed. The map shifted, the story loosened, and one question stayed behind like a stone in the pocket. What story am I consenting to…and is it the only one available.

When the rain turns to needles and the wind comes off the lake, it’s not shelter that saves the flock—but timing, instinct, and a handful of hay or square of good stockpile.

A hawk crosses the pasture and the flock startles, then returns to grazing as if the shadow never existed. Humans struggle with that return. Tending the inner pasture means finishing the cycle…stress with purpose, then real recovery, the way land heals when it is finally allowed to rest.

Barbecue isn’t just something to do on a Sunday. It’s a rebellion. It’s a return. It’s a reaffirmation of everything good and grounded about food. So fire up that smoker, invite your neighbors, and bring out the lamb chops from your local grass farm, the beef brisket that grazed on native pasture, and the pork shoulder that rooted through the woods like nature intended.

The debate over free speech reveals that while we have the right to speak freely, our greatest responsibility lies in using that freedom to uplift, protect, and cultivate a better world for all.