Real Farmers. Real Food. In the Nude.

Calendar Cover 2019

I am pleased to announce that the 2019 Soil Sisters Luscious Calendar is not only here, it is now available to buy online at It only took me 2 years (sorry about that 2018) to complete, but it was worth the wait. I managed to convince more than 23 local farmers to show me their fields, get in the buff, and let me photograph them in any number of glorious backdrops, and with the marvelous fruits and flowers of their hard work. I feel particularly proud this year, after giving birth to a human, and taking into account all the trials (and of course delights) of new motherhood, I still managed to make this calendar. I think in years past I have called this project a “labor of love.” Surely, it still is. Though I no longer use the word “labor” lightly, and instead will more aptly deem this a mere “exercise” of love. Let’s just say, I never felt like I was dying while I made this, or that the calendar was stuck at 7 centimeters and was never, ever going to make it out.

I could not have done this without so much help – mainly from my baby, for inspiring me to keep on creating the kind of world I want to leave to her (a world with vulnerability, creativity, joie de vivre, and the freedom to be naked in the mountain air), and to my husband, for taking care of said baby while I did my work, and helped me beyond measure with the trickier parts of editing, layout, and marketing, not to mention creating a website from scratch like the baller that he is. A thousand thank you’s to the farmers who went a little (or a lot) out of their comfort zone to let me find these beautiful images (and to those that were quite comfortable, all the same). I am so grateful to live in a county with such a spirited community of organic farmers. Our farmers are bad-ass – they do the daily work of coaxing food and flowers from the soil, work their butts off, and are passionate about taking care of our planet from the ground up. They do this each and every season, not often turning a large profit, but living a good life while at the same time feeding us all. So thank your local farmer (hey, you can get them one of these calendars as a token of your appreciation!) and enjoy looking at these sexy farmers in the coming year of 2019.

May your holiday season be bright, peaceful, and generous. May your upcoming new year be one of connection, compassion, creativity, and just the right amount of tasteful nudity.

Please visit me at to purchase the calendar as well as order individual prints! Thank you for your support!

With love,


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I blush. A lot. It can strike at any time, anywhere. I blush when i have to speak in front of more than four people. I blush when someone asks me a question and I have to answer them in front of someone else who happens to be eaves-dropping. Even if its freezing out, and I forgot my coat, and I have no hat, I still will feel that familiar flush of heat rise up through my cheeks, feel my arm-pits begin to sweat. It happens when I run into a cute boy, who I had a crush on briefly five years ago, and we’re talking about the weather. It doesn’t matter that i’m not interested in him, and it doesn’t matter that i don’t want him to have the impression that I’m interested. I blush anyways. I blush even at times when I’m on the phone, being interviewed by someone who CAN NOT EVEN SEE ME. I even blush, apparently, at the dentists, reclined on that chair, under that un-godly light, with Dr. Whosywhats forcefully flossing my teeth, as he tells me I have sensitive gums.

It happens when I feel embarrassed, about anything. It also happens when I don’t feel even the slightest bit embarrassed. Which then, undoubtedly, makes me feel embarrassed. I blushed today in fact, in the grocery store, when I ran into a guy who once helped me work on my plumbing in my trailer (I’m talking about my actual plumbing in my literal trailer – relax). We talked as we waited to check-out our groceries. I then realized, when I stepped outside into the brisk afternoon air, I was blushing. And so that we are perfectly clear, I do not, and never have, had a crush on my ex-plumber.

This last summer I was at a dinner with some neighbors and friends. The topic of blushing came up, as one of my friends it turns out, also has a lifetime of blushing experience. She described the years of anguish she experienced through her teens and early twenties. How she used to avoid large groups, speaking in front of people, talking to attractive men. It was only when she became older, and when traveling abroad she came across a series of lovers who considered her blushing not just acceptable, but downright cute, did she begin to accept this part of herself and relax around her body’s untimely demonstrations.

Listening to her struggles made me realize that at some point, long ago, I stopped realizing that I shared her affliction. Even a few minutes of her speaking passed by without me even making the connection between our almost identical symptoms. Because while there was a time that my blushing limited just how many times I was willing to raise my hand in class, that era has long ago passed. Its not that nowadays I’m completely unaware of what’s happening – that a blush is forming – its just that I’m able to hold that awareness more lightly, more of the time. It like in meditation – I don’t ignore the thought, but merely recognize it is there, like a bubble floating above my head, and then i blow it gently away. It works most of the time, and I’m able to proceed forward in whatever it is I am trying to do, instead of crawling into a cold, dark hole (which is what I would prefer to do, were one available).

I was thinking about this whole phenomenon recently while reading the book, “Big Magic,” by Elizabeth Gilbert (For the record, I do actually have a crush on Elizabeth Gilbert).  She tells a short story towards the end of the book, a true story recounted to her by a guy at a party, about his little brother’s trip to France to live as an artist for a year. Long story short, this American kid in France meets some cool bohemians one day who take a shining to him and invite him to the party of the year, letting him know that its most definitely a costume party, and also that all the biggest muckety-mucks in Europe were going to be there. So he works the rest of the week on this elaborate and amazing costume, rents a car and drives three hours to this beautiful castle outside Paris, changes in the car, walks up to the door, gets let in by the butler, and enters the great hall. That’s when he freezes. Everyone is indeed in costume, except he quickly realizes that there was a theme which was lost in translation. The theme was “a medieval court,” and so all these famous people are waltzing around wearing period-gowns and heavy brocade vests and glittering jewels and all the finest that renaissance royalty would have worn.

And this American kid is dressed as a lobster.

A full-on, head-to-toe lobster, complete with red spandex and red foam claws. So he has two choices: run or go with it. He chooses the later, because he spent so much energy and creativity on his costume, and he drove this far, and he’s learned from being an artist and continually putting himself out there, that he has little to lose. And he’s right. He sets off across the dance floor. The music stops and everyone stops their conversations and stares, until someone asks him what he is. He bows and says, “I am the court lobster.” Everyone laughs, everyone loves him, and he spends the evening dancing with royalty.

I love this story. I love it because this kid puts himself, and his costume creation, out into the world even when he knows that it may not fit-in and it may not be well-received. He could have easily been criticized, ridiculed, or shamed, and he knew this. You could say that he had no choice at that point, but he did. He could have never accepted the invitation, never created such an elaborate costume, and never even driven out there. And this is kind of how I feel every day. I imagine it is how many of us feel. When I publish something that I’ve written, or stand up in front of a group to speak, or even when I just leave the house and go to the grocery store – I often feel like a lobster. And when I blush, which I do in all of those situations, I actually look like one too.

What i realize about us blushers, is that our vulnerability is more visible than it is for most. We don’t have the luxury of putting ourselves or our work out into the world without looking like lobsters. And so we have learned to go with it. We have learned to stand up at our friend’s wedding and give a toast, dressed as a lobster. We have learned to make conversation in line for the bank, dressed as a lobster. We give farm tours, chat with neighbors, approach shops to sell our photographs, magazines to print our words – all while dressed as a lobster.

But as i get older – spending more and more of my days among farmers, flowers, and bees; and where how you handle a digging fork matters more than your chosen costume – its a vulnerability I’ve come to value. I am glad that I was put on this earth as someone who has a much harder time hiding her feelings. What once felt uncomfortable and unfair has morphed into feeling gratitude for the increased connection and intimacy my blushing affords. I have found that being vulnerable, and the practice I’ve had at it from my blushing, gives me a deeper access not only into my own life, but also into the lives of others. Being vulnerable, whether I intend to or not, is permission for others to be vulnerable as well. I feel as if I was forced, and am now choosing, to living more fully and with less caution. I can spend less time doing the complicated and impossible dance of trying to seem cool, calm, and composed in front of others – and spend more time being creative, adventurous, dorky, and brave. I can go for it, like the kid in the lobster costume. Besides a little discomfort, a slight fear of judgement, there really is no down-side to vulnerability. Life is more fun, more connected, more expansive, and definitely more exhilarating.

Maisie Ganz

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Are you a blusher too? Please share in a comment below!


a couple weeks ago i was on the phone with AT&T. this was the fifth phone-call i’d made to them in a span of only a few days. i will restrain myself from discussing my opinion of their services, since it is they who monopolize the internet connection for our county (oh, did i say monopolize? i meant provide), and most of you would not be able to read this were it not for their supremely iron-fisted rule. excuse me, superb internet wi-fi reliability.

my operator of the day was named david. he was in st. louis, missouri. i always ask where they are from, it helps me to consider them as human and thus helps to suppress my killing instincts as the call goes on, and on, and no end is in sight and they can’t help but charge me obscene amounts of money and they continue to sound like a robot. so i tell david of my troubles and he says, “don’t worry miss ganz, i am ready to take ownership of this issue.” he said this, like, three times. it must be in bold font at the top of his script or something, a sentence (the only sentence) he was given permission to use by his superiors to respond to just about any complaint given by a customer. and the funny thing was, i actually did feel soothed by this framing of the situation, this wording. ah, i thought, he’s taking ownership, finally i can relax.

ownership. flipped around to become the personal and the affirmative that word has a power to it. lately i’ve been wanting to write again. the farm season is drawing to a close, my time is freeing up, and the forecast calls for many rainy days of potential uninterrupted indoor writing. but i’ve been sluggish to begin. i keep finding excuses not to write, and reasons why it doesn’t make sense to even try. i feel fear – of failure, of judgement. i feel resignation – that its all been said before. i feel that there must be more important things to do, less frivolous then this thing called “writing.” but what if, as david of missouri so strangely and eloquently declared, i took ownership of my writing?

this, of course, is easier said then done. it takes some exploration on my part, to understand why i don’t write even though it is so enjoyable for me, so satisfying, and so deeply life-affirming. i am beginning to see that one reason it is hard for me to write is because writing does not have a measurable output. i spend the majority of my year doing. we wake up at dawn and i feel a deep sense of purpose – to don my work clothes in the early morning light and go outside to tend to our fields. we plant seeds, pull weeds, write emails, harvest flowers, dig beds, till in salad mix, arrange flowers for weddings, sell our wares at the farmer’s market and go to bed at night tired and fulfilled. i think i actually feel most relaxed when i know that i have been productive, that no time has been wasted that day or that week. so when it comes time to slow down and relax, embarrassingly enough, i struggle to do it. i can see that somehow i have confused my level of worth with the level at which i perform. i feel validated when i am busy. and at the base of it, if i wriggle way down into the depths of my self-created conundrum, i see that i’ve over-simplified the equation: (being productive + being busy) x being helpful to others = being loved.

which is where the idea of ownership comes in. no one else knows i’m working under the governance of such a messed-up equation; only i can recognize when that is my story, and only i can re-write it. which means i’m going to have to take some serious ownership of my writing. to me this means letting myself feel the obligations set into motion by my soul, not just the often louder and more insistent obligations of my farm business or household. otherwise the chores inevitably win out. vacuuming the house because it really is filthy right now will always win over taking time to write. so will ordering seeds, fixing the car, shopping for groceries, updating our farm’s website, making holiday presents…the list continuously mounts and evolves seasonally, drawing me away from, as stendhal once said, “the thing which gives [me] more pleasure than any other conceivable action.” well, he actually said, MAN is not free to refuse to do the thing which gives him more pleasure than any other conceivable action, but we’ll just ignore the man part for the moment and assume deep down stendhal supported women in pursuing their passions too.

so from now on i will aim to wake up in the morning and say, “don’t worry miss ganz, i am ready to take ownership of your writing.” i am ready to write freely and rollickingly (thank you brenda ueland). i’m ready to tap out some pages on the computer that may be crap or may be brilliant but at least there will be some tapping. i’m ready to forget the chores for the moment, turn off the internet, sit by the fire and write.

love, maisie

julius knows how to relax
julius: expert relaxer

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