The farm would be run on solar panels and heated by a wood stove.
And I would have so many chickens, dozens of chickens. We would eat eggs every morning in our great big, eat-in kitchen.
And maybe I would raise some pigs and have a few goats too. I would make cheese and yogurt, and top off my coffee with raw goats milk, straight from the utter.
And I would have blueberry bushes and blackberry bushes and an orchard full of fruit tress: peaches, plums, apples, pears, figs, nectarines.
And there would be a garden, though it would be the lazy man's variety, mostly stocked with dozens of varieties of tomatoes. And I would finally use my mason jars for something other than cocktails. I would learn to can tomatoes, and those tomatoes would be added to stews all winter long.
And I would plant a field of cutting flowers. And eight months a year, fresh flowers would adorn the table where we would eat our eggs every morning.
But then I wonder if that is actually what I want. I wonder if I would actually collect the apples and turn them into sauce. Would I resent the goats that needed milking, the weeds that needed weeding? Would I miss the smell of the salt and sulfur? Would I miss afternoons on the beach and the knock of neighborhood kids at the door?
And so, I say in my spot, imagining fields of greener grass, grass that I am in no way responsible for.