By Christina Cison
@ourcornerofcurrituck
We purchased our dream property in March 2020, adjusting our closing date due to the world shutting down. I remember reflecting on two comforts during those first few anxiety-filled weeks. First, our house had already stood for over 130 years, protecting families through many storms, hurricanes, and a previous pandemic. And second, I had land to expand my second backyard garden beyond the four garden boxes I’d grown the year before, should our family need to rely on food amidst shortages.
The path to this property and such a big change in life was a long time coming. My husband, Johnny, had purchased a fixer-upper 1970s ranch in the suburbs of Chicago, where he grew up. From roof to foundation, it was repaired and renovated with the help of his dad. This allowed hands-on learning and knowledge, as well as an arsenal of tools acquired for such projects. I have felt since my childhood that I was born during the wrong time period. I had slowly been adding interests and skills such as cooking, canning, gardening, and eventually dehydrating, fermenting, and the like.
When our daughter, E, was born in 2015, we were living in an upscale HOA community on a golf course. The interests and dreams we had bubbling under the surface catapulted themselves to the forefront. Suddenly, our priorities changed, and we adopted a new family motto of “less house, more yard.” We searched for years, driving streets, touring open houses, and casually packing our least-used items. Until eventually, we just jumped. We downsized, sold almost all of our furniture, and listed our house, with zero plans of where we’d land. Under contract and with no prospective house on the horizon, our realtor helped get us into a temporary rental. A few days later, we got an email that would change our lives and leave me screaming like a lotto winner, bursting into my husband’s home office.
Now, buying an old house in “as is, where is” condition isn’t for the faint of heart. We knew this getting into it, and had a battery of inspections during our due diligence, and thought we made realistic timelines for progress. However, planning it in your head and living it day to day are two really different things. I have generally been able to keep a level head about our ultimate goals, and see the beauty of the life we are building, as much time and hard work as it’s turned out to be.
Fast forward through three years of DIY repairs, projects, changes, hiccups, and progress. In April 2023, I started to get sick. First, it was a common illness, assessed at urgent care and sent on my way. But through misdiagnosis and incorrect medicines, I progressively got worse and faced some terrifying side effects. If that weren’t bad enough, I encountered something all too common for women: not being believed by a doctor. Worse than the pain and fear I’d felt from the actual illness for months, this would end up being the biggest hit to my mental health.
I had been somewhat keeping it together, still cooking homemade meals, planting my annual garden, preserving food, and baking sourdough bread. Once the panic of needing medical care and being dismissed had been experienced, I basically went into survival mode. I was unable to care for my family, myself, or perform my job of managing and cleaning vacation rentals. Friends and family stepped in where they could, but I let gardening and most cooking go in an effort of self-preservation. I simply had no ability to perform these tasks when I was consumed with panic attacks, fight-or-flight responses, intrusive thoughts, and crippling depression from so many months of being sick. Adding in the new fear of being left helpless by medical professionals, simply because I was a woman, was the tipping point.
Knowing I needed help, I immediately reached out to a psychiatrist, who also recommended a therapist. My weeks were filled with mental health appointments, as well as specialists, testing, and labs, still trying to fix the original health concerns. After months, and through the amazing advancements of medicine, I was finally healthy again. It would take longer, and eventually DNA testing for the proper medications, but my mental health began to improve as well.
By now, it was well into October, and I was able to return to things like regularly cooking for my family. Reaching into a neglected top shelf of the refrigerator, I grabbed a long-forgotten jar, not touched since May. Pulling it out, a thick, black layer of liquid sat atop what was once my bubbly, healthy sourdough starter. I held it in my hand and stared in awe, knowing this was just hooch, a byproduct of the fermentation process. Even though it signified it was hungry and needed to be fed, the starter was doing what it was designed to do: sit in a stagnant state, protecting itself. I teared up, putting it back in the fridge, realizing I had been doing the exact same thing for the past five months.
I cried about and processed this with my therapist more during that week’s session. Both of us agreed how symbolic it was, yet probably not the time to wake both the starter and myself for a full feeding and return to real life. Knowing it was safe in the fridge, just as I was safe in my recovery, was enough.
The next few months, I’d pull that sourdough starter out on rough days. Turning the jar, staring at the black liquid keeping the organisms suspended in a state of hibernation. I contemplated waking it up to bake for Thanksgiving, then Christmas, but put it back. Still balancing my medication, appointments, and feeling vulnerable to my return to being a functional human, it was intimidating. I joked about it with my therapist a few more times.
And then came Spring. A time for rebirth, the earth waking up, a full year since I first got sick. I remembered the special Easter boule I’d made the year before, just a couple weeks before my first urgent care visit. And I knew I wanted to choose our traditional Easter brunch to wake my sourdough starter up for.
A couple of days before Easter, I grabbed my jar and dumped out that black liquid hooch that had protected my starter. I split it, putting it in two clean, new jars, and finally fed it the new flour and water that it had waited so many months for. Half went back into the fridge to stay, and the other half onto the counter. It needed a couple of really good bulk feeds to wake from such a deep slumber but bubbled and doubled, and smelled of fresh, yeasty tang. It was familiar, yet somewhat foreign to weigh and mix, fold and stretch, knead and shape again. I had to refer to my notes for what was once second nature, and second-guessed myself a few times. After the final rise, I popped my bread into the oven and anxiously awaited, trying not to get my hopes up too much.
The delicious aroma of fresh-baked bread filled our home for who knows how many times in her 130+ years. This time was extra special for me, though. As I (im)patiently waited for my loaf to cool and cut into it, I did as my therapist recommended and reflected back on the entire year. Where I was last year, where I am this year, the progress I’ve made, and still will make. No longer suspended in a state of self-preservation, just trying to get through the day-to-day. Now awoken again, with a new appreciation for myself, those around me, and the everyday tasks I am slowly adding to my life as I feel ready.
About Christina
Christina Cison is a wife, homeschool mama, old house DIYer, zone 9a gardener, and food preservation enthusiast. She grew up on the Outer Banks, NC and now calls nearby Currituck County home. In her spare time, she enjoys embroidery, reading, walking, listening to true crime podcasts, or sitting with her chickens.
Share your favorite recipe + their story
Hey there, friend!
I want to welcome you to the newest addition to the Farmhouse Storyteller Journal- Homestead Hearth, where we celebrate the heart and soul of homestead cooking. Our homestead is a cherished gathering place for tired hog drivers to Sunday dinner. Just as the hearth symbolizes warmth and togetherness, we invite you to join us in sharing the cherished recipes that have brought nourishment and joy to our family table.
Since returning to the country, I have found that food is more than just sustenance – it’s a connection to our past, a celebration of family roots, and a way to create lasting memories. That’s why we’re not just sharing our own family recipes; we’re extending the table to welcome contributions from YOU! Whether it’s a treasured recipe that’s been passed down through generations or a new favorite that captures the spirit of homestead living, we invite you to share it with our community.
Reach out by replying to this email or writing me at danielle@farmhousestoryteller.com.
So come, pull up a chair, and join us by the hearth. Let’s celebrate the bounty of the homestead together, one delicious recipe at a time.
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