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 was started.

A good macabre joke should never die so I carried it with me. After a few years of parading in Paris, I came back stateside and to Brooklyn, painting the name on a folding table and pushing 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 with no one else, an ill-conceived demotion into a basement space literally beneath Canal Street, and finally a clean, sunlit place of our own. 45 South Street Brooklyn. We are here to stay.

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

Home is now back home, A home of my own across 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.

It is wonderful. It is chaos. My daughter‘s hair resembles a birds nest, and that is ok with me.

I have plans to plant this 14-acre plot, grow flowers for the other Fox Fodder Farm where I spend my time. This spring, when my son has outgrown his 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.

All Best,
Taylor

Photographer—Kava Gorna