Parsing Excel

The seed order is going to be late this year. Or, late relative to years gone by. It will be right on time for this year. And it will be much reduced relative to years gone by. We're shrinking.
The fat is going to have to be cut around here, and I will do so without mercy. Fewer crops, fewer varieties, less acreage. These are tough times, and they call for tough measures. I'm measuring out every bit of fat that's trimmed, and then trimming some more. That ride to California with the mattress tied to the roof of the car is only one small disaster away, and, around here, disaster lurks around every corner.
We're going back to our roots, back to the early days of the farm, when we got by with less than nothing. It worked then and it will work now.
The new van (parked in the driveway, glowing in the starlight, not unlike a beacon of hope) signals a new paradigm. In many ways. It is clean and stark and white. Minimal. That's the course this year will have to take. Nothing extraneous. No curves, no swirls. Nothing symbolic of the past or the future. Nothing symbolic of the glory days of General Motors. No bumper stickers and no handmade signs. No skulls, no roses.
The van is a tabla rasa, a minimalist billboard, the bare necessities.
Thai okra? Gone. A dozen varieties of winter squash? One will do. Greens a staple of the Peruvian diet? Leave them there. Things that reputedly did well for Jefferson? He had slaves. Centerpieces from Sissinghurst or Hidcote? For sissies. Not even any squash with funny sounding French names.
The winter's been bad enough; now I hear there's a stomach flu going around. I've had all I can take. The thought of people around me throwing up is unbearable. It just can't get any worse.