A Fox Fodder Tale

We had too many chickens so my mother ordered cartons from Murray Mcmurray and a custom rubber stamp from the general store two towns over. She chose the name in reference to the previous spring’s rather violent coup in the coop. That was how Fox Fodder Farm took its name.

A good macabre joke should never die so I carried it with me. After a few years in Paris, I came back stateside and to Brooklyn and painted the name on a folding table and pushed plants potted in Mason jars at the Brooklyn flea.

Hey, it was 2012.

I dabbled in designing gardens for awhile but eventually flowers took first place . . .

A corner of my landlord’s garage to start, then a shit-show of a shared studio, a summer retail pop-up, a studio to ourselves, then an ill-conceived demotion into a basement space under Canal Street--

and, finally, a clean, well-sunlit place of our own.

So there you have it...or at least parts. before it was a floral studio, Fox Fodder Farm was a family story.

And now I am back home, a home of my own, across the way from where my mother sold eggs in stamped cartons, where my grandmother was born. A mother myself now-- two in tow, romping and drooling and screaming across this land where my sister and I did the same.

I have plans to plant this 14 acre plot.

Some spring, after my son has lo his outgrown patience for our weekly commutes to and fro, I'll be driving blooms rather than a baby to Brooklyn.

Come by the shop. It is lovely in here, filled with flowers. And we have four finches. And a water feature that has never worked.

Taylor

Photographer—Kava Gorna