Origins

Roots

Grandpa's Garden

Patchogue, New York

In many ways, this garden begins in Grandpa's backyard in Patchogue, New York. When I was very young, his garden seemed enormous to me — rows of plants stretching farther than I could really measure or understand. I was too young to think in terms of dimensions or property lines. What I saw instead was something alive and endless in every direction I looked.

At that age I didn't have the language for gardens the way adults do. The closest thing my mind could compare it to was a universe — a place filled with movement, growth, and small discoveries everywhere I looked.

One spring morning Grandpa took me out into the garden for the first turning of the shovel of the season. He pushed the shovel into the earth, lifted the first slice of soil, and broke it apart with his hands. Inside were worms moving through the dirt.

"These are worms. That means this is good soil."

It was a simple lesson, but one that stayed with me. Good soil makes a good garden. Grandpa understood that instinctively, and in that moment he passed the idea along simply by showing me what living soil looked like in the palm of his hand.

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Tuscany

San Casciano in Val di Pesa, Italy

Another garden memory lives far from New York, in the Tuscan hills of Italy. In San Casciano in Val di Pesa, the land carries centuries of agriculture. Vineyards climb the hillsides, olive trees follow the contours of the earth, and the soil itself feels connected to a much older rhythm of growing food.

It was also in Italy, in that Tuscan landscape, where Barbara and I had our first garden together. We grew lettuce in it. It was a small thing, but it was ours — and there was something in the act of growing even that much food in that place that felt entirely right.

The connection between land, food, and everyday life was unmistakable. Gardening there did not feel like a hobby. It felt like a natural part of living on the land.

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The Verdell Gardens

Connecticut

Back in the United States, another garden appeared in our lives. Barbara restored the gardens surrounding a beautiful colonial home in Connecticut — a property that had been neglected for many years. The land itself was old, and the garden beds had originally been laid out more than a century earlier.

Barbara approached the restoration with tremendous care and intention. She placed a special order with White Flower Farm for white tulips — a particular variety chosen deliberately for the garden — and when they came up in spring they transformed the beds completely. Roses climbed along the paths, and the entire place slowly came back to life.

Watching that process revealed something important — that gardens are not simply planted. They are restored, stewarded, and carried forward through time.

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Will

The Farm Stand Years

Years later, another chapter unfolded at a farm stand where Will and I worked together. That was where I first saw how deeply curious Will could be about food — he wanted to understand everything. The produce itself, where it came from, how it was grown, what customers were really looking for when they walked up to the stand.

Watching that curiosity was one of the moments where I realized just how remarkable my brother really is. Working with the products every day deepened my own understanding of food — where it comes from, and how people connect to it.

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A Garden for James

In memory of James O'Halloran

This garden is also dedicated to the memory of James O'Halloran.

James was the one who introduced me to Jimmy Nardello peppers. He knew exactly who Jimmy was and understood the lineage — that James Nardello had brought his family's seeds from Ruoti, Italy to Connecticut, and that the sweet frying pepper that carries his name has been passed down by gardeners ever since.

Those same peppers grow here now, a direct line from what James shared with me. In that way, gardens become more than places where plants grow. They become living memory.