From Warzone to Wheat Zone: My Campaign in Homesteading

There are few things more humbling than a freshly graduated 23-year-old—lovingly called “Big City Girl” by her small-town friends—trying to become a homesteader after moving straight from college to Harrington. 

I like to joke that I “served” my time in Detroit before enlisting in the Army, but let’s be honest: 8 Mile was a warzone long before basic training. These days, my biggest battles are with haybales and sourdough.

Speaking of battles, let’s talk garden warfare. 

I planted 14 carrots with all the precision of a kindergarten teacher handing out crayons… and promptly killed every last one. It was like Les Misérables in root vegetable form—tragic, slow, and deeply depressing. Somehow, my other plants survived. Maybe divine intervention, maybe dumb luck. Either way, my herbs are thriving, veggies are plotting their rise, and I’m waiting for the tomato rebellion.

I’m living the farm-to-table fantasy, sort of. I’ve got fresh herbs, a garden that’s mostly alive, and thanks to my local connections, I get eggs fresh from actual chickens. Sorry, Safeway, but Yolko Ono and her flock are running the show now.

Then came sourdough. Or as I like to call it, “sour-don’t.” 

My first loaf was less “rustic artisan” and more “military-grade weapon.” Honestly, I’m convinced Uncle Sam could use it to fortify bunkers—it was that dense. A good friend bit into it and said, “You could dip this in soup, it’d soak it up like a sponge, and you’d still need more soup to make it less dense.” Ouch. But hey, that loaf was a tactical training exercise in patience and persistence.

I wrestled that dough like it owed me back pay—elbows deep in goo, wondering if I’d accidentally invented gluten-based concrete. But with help from a local sourdough wizard, my loaves got lighter, my confidence grew, and I started having fun again. Less despair, more butter.

This whole homesteading thing?

It’s basically how I do life. I dive in headfirst, mess up spectacularly, shed a few metaphorical tears, then somehow figure it out—sometimes with help, sometimes by sheer stubbornness.

Oh, and I want to be a successful homesteader while keeping my gig as the community’s faithful editor-in-camo (camo worn occasionally—because let’s be real, I’m no green beret). Mostly, though, I’m playing house. That same friend who survived my “Brick of Doom” loaf teases me because I’m always in the kitchen barefoot, wearing a pink floral apron, blasting 30s, 40s, and 50s jazz—Etta James, Ella Fitzgerald, Glenn Miller, Sinatra, Louis Armstrong, Bobby Darin—the whole vintage playlist. 

I’m basically starring in my own black-and-white movie, hopeless romantic style.

What he probably sees is a lovely disaster: a messy bun, starter on my face, flour everywhere, and paw prints from Winnie, my trusty canine kitchen assistant, stamped across the floor. (Don’t worry, my sourdough mess has gotten way more contained lately—I don’t want the whole county thinking I’m a tornado in the kitchen.)

So here I am: elbow-deep in dough, dirt, and dreams. I’m still learning, still messing up, but loving every crumb of it.

If anyone’s got a dairy cow, I’m ready to barter raw milk for sourdough bread, muffins, or most recently some homemade chocolate chip pumpkin pie sourdough cookies—maybe even throw in a few herbs, veggies, and some of that good old-fashioned optimism.

Because homesteading isn’t about perfection—it’s about the mess, the music, the flour on your face, and finding joy in the chaos.

And if you ask me? That’s a war worth fighting.