Jason Peters

Jason Peters
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Jason Peters tends a small acreage in Ingham County, Michigan, and teaches English at Hillsdale College. A founding member of FPR, he is the editor of both Local Culture: A Journal of the Front Porch Republic and Front Porch Republic Books. His books include The Culinary Plagiarist: (Mis)Adventures of a Lusty, Thieving, God-Fearing Gourmand (FPR Books 2020), Wendell Berry: Life and Work (University Press of Kentucky 2007), Land! The Case for an Agrarian Economy, by John Crowe Ransom (University Press of Notre Dame, 2017), and Localism in the Mass Age: A Front Porch Republic Manifesto (co-edited with Mark T. Mitchell for FPR Books, 2018).

Recent Essays

Walking in a Dead Man’s Shoes

A woman in another kind of grief uttered the terrible “should have been.”

On Being Less than We Are

What you miss out on by not making the climb is too great a loss on such a morning as this.

The Holy Waters, the Bra Tree, and The Unexpected: A Study in Contrasts; Or, Gone Fishin’ (Again)

And then comes the last kayak, plenty buoyant, and in it a beauty contestant in minimal black swimwear.

Gone Fishing (1)

I called him by the name I thought he deserved to be called by.

Once More to the Garden (Then to the Trout Streams): A Dispatch

I wonder if Mr. Big in the sky would be willing to give us a Do-Over.

At Last, the FPR Manifesto

... where human affairs are conducted as if place really matters, where economic affairs are conceived as if limits really matter, and where political power is exercised as if liberty really matters.

The Winter of our Disconchickentent: A Dispatch

Nature stepped in in her wonted way and took complete control.

Why Patrick Deneen Failed

It's already an amazon dot hell best-seller in political theory.

A Few Favorable Words About Jud Heathcote

I understood immediately why Skiles was a Spartan and I was not.

Good Night, Sweet Babe Magnet

It's as if two men are talking fondly about a woman both of them were once married to.

And Then Came the Chickens, Part Two: A Dispatch from Dumb-Ass Acres

“Bawk-bawk be-gehk!” she cries, and I know just where she’s coming from.