Maybe you’ve felt it too.
The pull toward a slower, more self-sufficient life. The desire to grow your own food, fill your freezer, preserve a summer harvest, or walk into the woods and recognize what’s edible and what isn’t. Maybe you’ve spent hours scrolling past immaculate gardens, expensive greenhouses, and perfectly curated homesteads, wondering if there’s room for you in this world without the budget, the acreage, or the expertise.
I know that feeling. Somewhere along the way, I lost sight of something important: the aesthetics aren’t the point. Wildflowers thrive surrounded by thistle and quack grass. Morels push through the decay of fallen trees. Raspberries take root beside old sheds. The goal was never perfection—it was learning the skills to feed my family and live a little closer to the land.
I grew up on ten acres of heavy clay soil in northern Minnesota. Before I was born, my dad planted an orchard of apple and plum trees alongside rows of berry bushes. Some of my earliest memories are of picking fruit and making jam and jelly with my mom, hauling home produce from the farmers market to make Grandma Delphia’s salsa recipe, and walking the woods each spring in search of morel mushrooms.
For my grandparents, these weren’t hobbies. They were skills born from necessity—ways to keep food on the table through long winters and uncertain times. They made meals from scratch, filled freezers with fish and wild game, and preserved what they could when the growing season was short.
As an adult, I drifted away from that life.
I kept a large garden for almost a decade, but then came a demanding corporate career that consumed more and more of my time. The garden disappeared. Canning became an occasional weekend project instead of a seasonal rhythm. Convenience quietly replaced the dirt under my fingernails. Years later, I realized I no longer knew where much of my food came from or how it was grown.
Leaving that behind wasn’t a single dramatic decision. It was a slow realization that the life I wanted had been waiting for me all along.
Then I met my husband, Brandon.
Long before we met, Brandon had already spent a lifetime outdoors. Some of his earliest memories are of his family throwing him over their shoulder and climbing up into the deer stand, checking trap lines, and learning about the animals that call northern Minnesota home. His uncle is a taxidermist and Brandon grew up around the shop — first listening, then eventually working alongside him. He developed an encyclopedic knowledge of the woods long before he met me.
Brandon lives with Spinal Muscular Atrophy and uses a wheelchair, but around here that’s simply one part of the planning that goes into the life we’ve built together. The details may look different, but the goal never has. We’ve always believed that with a little creativity — and the support of family and friends — there are very few places we can’t go.
More importantly, Brandon is curious, practical, and endlessly patient. He’s the one who remembers where the mushrooms popped up last spring, notices subtle changes in the weather, and happily spends an afternoon collecting wildflower seeds. We process deer together, package meat for the freezer, scout for grouse, and trade ideas about where to explore next.
Thanks to him, we haven’t bought ground beef in years. We grind our own venison and make summer sausage, breakfast sausage, snack sticks, and brats. Chicken dinners are often replaced by grouse or wild turkey. Living in the land of 10,000 lakes means there’s usually fish in the freezer too. But wild game is only half of the equation.
Spring here is muddy boots, seed catalogs, and waiting impatiently for the ground to thaw. Summer is a race against weeds, mosquitoes, and a growing season that always feels too short. Fall means preserving what we can before winter arrives. And winter—the long northern kind—is for planning, learning, and appreciating the work that filled the pantry and freezer.
Some of these skills are old friends. I’ve been picking morels since I was a kid and preserving food in one form or another for most of my life. Others are newer. Over the years, I’ve learned how to skin and quarter deer, fillet fish, and process wild game. I’ve spent countless hours in the woods learning to identify edible mushrooms and plants—fiddlehead ferns remain a family favorite.
And there is still so much I don’t know.
Right now, I’m finding my way back to the garden after years away from it. I’m expanding my knowledge of wild plants and figuring out which preservation methods make the most sense for our household. Some seasons go exactly as planned. Most don’t. I’ll be learning plenty of it in real time, and I hope you’ll learn alongside me.
Wild & Preserved is where I’m documenting that process. You’ll find stories and practical advice about hunting, fishing, foraging, gardening, and preserving the food we bring home. You’ll find the realities of Zone 3 living—late frosts, short summers, long winters, and the challenge of building a self-sufficient life in a climate that isn’t always forgiving.
Most of all, this space is for people who have felt overlooked by homesteading content built for warmer places and bigger budgets. It’s for the people who want to know what actually works in northern Minnesota and places like it. The people who care more about learning than appearances. We’re figuring a lot of this out as we go.
If that sounds like your kind of life, I’d love to have you here. Follow along on Instagram and Pinterest to see what we’re growing, preserving, and learning in real time.