a heritage grain revival.

Most modern farms don’t grow grains for flavor.

In the Mid-Atlantic, wheat is everywhere — tens of thousands of acres — but almost all of it is modern genetics, high-yield commodity grain bred for one purpose: industrial efficiency. It’s designed to fit into big machines, big storage bins, and big systems. And as you might guess… it’s pretty flavor and nutrition-less.

But here at Burnt Hill, we’ve never been interested in farming for the commodity market. We’re farming for flavor. We’re farming for nutrition. We’re farming for joy. And that’s where this story really starts — with a little-known heirloom grain called Turkey Red Winter Wheat.

Back in October of 2020, we were out in the fields, planting 20 acres of organic heirloom small grains — among them, Turkey Red. Turkey Red is no ordinary wheat. It’s a hard red winter wheat that once covered much of American — prized for its rich, nutty flavor, its resilience in poor soils, and its ability to bake exceptional bread. It was brought to America by Mennonite immigrants from Crimea in the 1870s, carried in pockets and trunks across an ocean, across a continent, and across generations.

But like so many heritage crops, Turkey Red was nearly lost — pushed aside by modern, high-yield, genetically-modified hybrids. Lucky for us, a small group of dedicated farmers preserved the old seed stock. And lucky for Burnt Hill, we get to be part of its revival.

We didn’t just want to grow wheat because it felt romantic or nostalgic. We wanted to grow wheat because it tastes better. It’s better for the earth. It’s better for our bodies. And — most importantly — it’s better for how we want to feed people here.

We’re growing Turkey Red organically, right here on the same steep, rocky hillside where we grow our grapes and graze our sheep. It sequesters carbon. It suppresses weeds. It keeps the soil covered and alive through the winter.

And when it’s ready? We harvest it by hand — with sickles, like they did generations ago — gathering each bundle with intention and care.

From there, we thresh it by hand using pedal-powered threshers, and then mill it on-farm with our New American Stone Mill — a beautiful machine, handmade in Vermont, with giant limestone wheels that spin slow and cool to preserve every ounce of flavor and nutrition.

And then — finally — that flour stays right here, never leaving the farm, becoming the dough that feeds everything we do: wood-fired pizzas, handmade pastas, sourdough breads, baked desserts.

Grain to flour to dough to plate — all from one place.

Where most restaurants start with a concept or a cuisine, we started with a farm. A farm that set out to produce the most delicious food and wine possible, grown entirely from this land.

We replaced imported olive oil with locally pressed sunflower oil. We swapped out lemons for verjus and vinegar made from our estate grapes and fruits. We raise woodland Mangalitsa hogs and pastured long-wool sheep who graze our vineyard in the off-season, mowing grass, aerating soil, and feeding the land in return.

And our wheat? It’s not just growing in isolation. In true Burnt Hill fashion, this year we planted nearly an acre of Trousseau — right into our standing Turkey Red wheat. It’s a beautiful, intentional chaos. The wheat suppresses weeds while the baby vines take root beneath its canopy. In mid-summer, we’ll come back through with sickles to harvest the wheat — while the Trousseau quietly stretches its roots deeper into the earth.

This is polyculture farming at its most delicious. At its most alive.

Excellence is a moving target — but chasing it means growing, making, and sharing things that feel deeply rooted in this land.

Turkey Red wheat is a perfect example. It’s nutritious. It’s delicious. It’s beautiful waving in the summer breeze. And when you sit down at a table here — to tear into a loaf of sourdough or a slice of pizza or a handmade pasta — you’re not just tasting flour.

You’re tasting this hill. This soil. This season. This farm.

This is how we eat and drink from the land at Burnt Hill.