Each seed packet features his original hand-drawn art. Some realistic, others delightfully goofy. They’re little artworks in themselves. Each one is a slice of his world, glued by hand to a packet full of potential.
It’s become a special mum-and-son thing.

He brings the pencils; I bring the plants.

Over the last decade, we’ve become intentional about saving seeds.

Not just for us, but for our wider community. We want to help grow a future where every neighbourhood has access to nourishing, homegrown kai. Where seed saving supports food resilience, local abundance, and a sense of shared guardianship.
Every time someone plants a saved seed, they join a quiet movement - for biodiversity, for food sovereignty, for a future that still smells like crushed tomato leaves and freshly pulled carrots.

We or gardeners we know grow the seed. Gully and I then hand-collect, clean, and germination-test the seeds ourselves. Just the varieties we love: the delicious ones, the hardy ones, the ones that thrive in southern soils.

Open-pollinated seeds like ours are beautifully unpredictable.
They don’t come out identical every time, and that’s the magic. Pollinated by birds, bees, and the breeze they shift with the seasons.

They adapt.

They evolve.

They thrive in backyard chaos and bloom in forgotten corners.

They can be saved, shared, and grown year after year.
These seeds carry stories - of place, of resilience, of whānau who passed them hand to hand, garden to garden, because food has always been a kind of currency, of care, of culture, of connection.

In a world of fast fixes, seed saving is slow, circular, and deeply hopeful.
It honours the past, feeds the present, and prepares us for an unpredictable future.
We believe open-pollinated seeds are more important than ever in a changing climate.
Growing your own kai isn’t just a hobby. It’s a way of taking back a little control, tasting real flavour, and reconnecting with land, lineage, and life itself.