We Don’t Just Harvest—We Pay Attention

Most of what we offer starts wild. Not ordered rows, not greenhouse trays—wild.

We head out with baskets and blades, gloved hands and sharp eyes. We’re not gathering for aesthetics. We’re gathering with purpose. The season tells us what to find, and the land tells us how much. The answer is never “everything.”

Half. That’s the rule. Take half. Leave the rest to reseed, to spread, to feed what came before us and will come after.

This isn’t a scavenger hunt. This is land stewardship.

Some herbs we grow—mints, rosemary, others that don’t thrive wild in our zone. When we cultivate, we mimic nature as close as possible. The right soil. The right spacing. The right balance. No chemicals. No shortcuts. Just what the plant actually wants.

Our potting mix? Built from what we have: decomposed wood chips, peat moss, grass-fed compost, chicken manure, and eggshells from birds that walk where they please. Every input has a name, a source, and a purpose.

But foraging? That’s sacred.

We don’t touch land that’s been sprayed. We don’t touch areas already picked over. And if the bees and butterflies aren’t working the field, we move on. If the grass doesn’t rustle when we step in—no birds, no life, no signs of vibrance—we don’t harvest there either.

You can’t trust what the land hasn’t claimed for itself.

If we wouldn’t use it on our own skin, in our own teas, in our own lives—we don’t offer it to anyone else.
What you buy from us is what we use ourselves. No second-tier batches. No cutting corners for scale.

That’s the standard. And it’s not negotiable.