tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-44233500241120302322024-03-06T15:01:34.902-05:00Fat Rooster Farm Newsfat rooster farmhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13454101442908709731noreply@blogger.comBlogger40125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4423350024112030232.post-28399411752445953882014-06-25T22:44:00.001-04:002014-06-25T22:44:31.243-04:00<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Rhubarb and Rain</div>
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For the last three years, we have supplied over 200 pounds of rhubarb to one of the largest CSAs in Vermont. They can grow everything else, from artichokes to Asian greens, but they can't grow rhubarb. So they buy it from us. This CSA is as popular as Misty Knolls Farm, who has the corner on local "free-range" poultry, but that's another story.</div>
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Our rhubarb patch is about 80 feet long and is made up of plants that we transplanted from my childhood home in East Middlebury (the plants were there when my parents bought the place in 1962), and from some plants dumped on the side of the road that Kyle lugged home after upheaving the FREE! sign. </div>
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Kyle has babied these plants, keeping them weed-free, dosing them with copious amounts of aged manure, mulching them, reigning in my overzealous harvest. The plants are beautiful.</div>
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So on this day, Kyle and I harvested the rhubarb for that big CSA, who said that a truck would be coming bright and early to pick it up. We picked 190 pounds of beautiful stuff, the same stuff that we have been selling at Norwich Farmer's Market for the past four weeks.</div>
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Four hours later, after it had been harvested, washed, boxed, and weighed, I get a message on my cell phone that said: I can't find you, you need to meet me at the interstate; I don't have a cell phone.<br />
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Who does not have a cell phone in this day and age, whose job depends on constant communication?</div>
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Naturally, I 'm freaking out, calling the company that has the CSA, calling the trucking company who is supposed to be picking up my precious rhubarb. Finally, eight hours later, the trucker finds our farm and gets the rhubarb.</div>
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The next day, I get a call from the CSA,saying how they could only use 146 pounds, and could they have a discount on the rest, cuz it took a long time to pick through all of the bad stuff.</div>
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At this point, I am just trying to do my yoga breaths and not fly off the handle. I then explain AGAIN how the driver hadn't found the right address and had actually missed pick up so that he was 7 hours late. I tell them, that yes, I'll eat the 44 pounds of the precious stuff that is useless, but no, I am not going to do a discount for the time it took to pick through the rhubarb- they need to be equally responsible for the trucker's error. <br />
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To date, I have not heard about whether I will be paid at all- $380 worth, and perhaps, the last time that I will be supplying them rhubarb.<br />
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All I can say is that the "local" movement stopped treating small farms like what we are very shortly after local,sustainable, and CSA became buzzwords. I am saddened by the fact that this mega CSA won't stick by their local, small producers (the company spokesperson actually chided me and said that the can only offer quality product to their consumers). In years past, the truck has come when and where he said he would, and the CSA has been thrilled.<br />
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I'm really not sure why I'm complaining about this, other than the fact that our tiny farm now has a tarnished rep as a rhubarb supplier because the buyer gave the transportation company the wrong address. I guess I thought that local meant Vermont, but maybe I need to be even more local….<br />
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Here's a pic of my local supper...<br />
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fat rooster farmhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13454101442908709731noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4423350024112030232.post-40239862420133825052014-05-28T06:57:00.000-04:002014-05-28T06:57:56.542-04:00Homage to Lovage<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I don't even know where I got my Lovage from. It was a long time ago, I know that. And I think I got it just because it sounded like a cool word. Most people don't know how to pronounce the herb's name, let alone what to do with it. Lots of people ask me at market what to do with "love-ahhjeh"<br />
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Europeans and English folks are much more comfortable using it. They put it in soups, fold it into egg dishes, toss it with asparagus and green beans, even dry it and combine it with more traditional herbs, like parsley and sage and thyme.<br />
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What's best about lovage, like dandelion and nettle, is that it pokes its lime green head out of the soil and announces Spring like one of those first hot days does- even when hot means 60 degrees, and not 16 degrees.<br />
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It reminds me of one of those brilliantly colored songbirds, gone for so many months, now back at the feeder, tasting the oranges that we've laid out to lure them close for that fleeting moment before they head off to the forest. One day last week, I had a rose-breasted grosbeak, a northern oriole, an indigo bunting and a scarlet tanager ALL in the same platform feeder. Lovage is like that: it's here first, so it begs to be used. Who would think that an indigo bunting would be attracted to an orange in a feeder.<br />
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The thing about lovage is that a little goes a long way. It is in the celery family, but it's spicier- like a cross between fennel and black pepper- and bitter- like arugula or orange zest. People are scared of it here. What do you do with it, they ask at market. And so, I made pesto out of it to show everyone how versatile it is. In the raw, I sprinkle it on asparagus (it tames the sweet), put it in deviled eggs (brings out the creamy yolk), steep it in soup (best with poultry, again, taming that sweetness).<br />
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I guess my point is that just because it's different, doesn't mean it's not good. The songbirds that have travelled hundreds of mile know this when they come to our yard in search of oranges before retreating to the forest. And we should experiment with learning how to use what comes back to us in spring. That means to me using one of the first of my perennial herbs to come back to life in the garden. Here are two great recipes that have passed the teenager's and the midwestern meat-and-potatoes' taste buds.<br />
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<b>Asparagus Sesame Soup</b></div>
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<b>serves 4</b></div>
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<b>1 pound asparagus</b></div>
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<b>1/8th cup peanut oil</b></div>
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<b>1 1/4 cups chopped onions</b></div>
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<b>1/4 cup minced scallions</b></div>
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<b>1 large all-purpose potato, peeled and diced</b></div>
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<b>1/2 quart chicken stock</b></div>
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<b>pinch of sugar</b></div>
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<b>2 tbs toasted sesame seeds</b></div>
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<b>1 1/2 tablespoons soy (or tamari) sauce</b></div>
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<b>1 tbs sesame oil</b></div>
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<b>ground black pepper, to taste</b></div>
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<b>1 tbs chopped lovage for garnish</b></div>
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<b>Snap the ends off of the asparagus, or alternatively, peel the first two inches. Cut off 1 inch of the tips and reserve. Slice the remaining stalks thinly.</b></div>
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<b>Heat the peanut oil in a saucepan or soup pot that is big enough for all of the ingredients. Add the onions and scallions and stir over medium heat until wilted and soft, but not browned. Add the potatoes and the sliced asparagus. Pour in the stock, the sugar and half of the toasted sesame seeds</b><b>.</b></div>
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<b>Bring to a simmer, cover, and cook until all ingredients are tender, about 20 minutes. Then pour the soup into a blender and blend until smooth.</b></div>
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<b>Add the reserved tips, the soy sauce, sesame oil and pepper. Sprinkle individual bowls with the chopped lovage. </b></div>
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<b>The soup is good chilled or hot, although I prefer it hot.</b><br />
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<b>Adapted from Judith Olney's <i>The Farm Market Cookbook </i>1991</b></div>
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<b>Lovage Pesto</b></div>
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<b>makes about a half pint</b></div>
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<b>3 large cloves garlic peeled and chopped ( or 4 tbsp chopped wild leeks)</b></div>
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<b>1/4 pound lovage leaves, stems removed</b></div>
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<b>1 cup extra virgin olive oil</b></div>
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<b>1/2 pound (about 2 cups) walnut pieces</b></div>
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<b>2 teaspoons sea salt</b></div>
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<b>Put the garlic or wild leeks in a food processor or blender, then the lovage and half of the oil. Blend until smooth (I sometimes add a bit of water to help the process along). Add the walnuts and the remaining oil and salt. Let it sit for at least an hour before using. It will stay good for about 2 weeks in the fridge.</b></div>
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<b>From Barbara Kofka's <i>Vegetable Love </i>2005</b></div>
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fat rooster farmhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13454101442908709731noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4423350024112030232.post-88169101928657400612014-05-16T21:50:00.000-04:002014-05-16T21:50:11.769-04:00Eating Spring's First Weeds<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
The first time I heard that dandelions weren't native to North America, I didn't believe it. Then came the hard truth that Vermont's state flower, the red clover isn't a native. Then earthworms (well most species), potatoes, garlic and all apples except the crab apple fell from grace. I think I nearly lost it when I found out honey bees had been imported.<br />
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To most of us, the dandelion is considered a weed. Unless you're making a dandelion chain necklace, or playing the mommy had a baby and… you know the rest- game, it's regarded as a troublesome pest. It invades our gardens and lawns, and those gorgeous yellow flowers turn into poofy,white turbans that stick to everything and fly everywhere.<br />
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But in Vermont, where there are literally 9 months of winter, when those first Spring shoots come poking out of the ground, they are cause for celebration. And their astringent, earthy taste is just the tonic we crave after months of grocery store produce that all tastes like wax boxes and is as crunchy as cardboard. Like radicchio and chicory, it's a breath of fresh air after weeks of iceberg, or if you're a real purest, no greens at all.<br />
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I've used dandelion greens for tea, raw in salads, and chopped in smoothies. The greens are best before the flowers come out of their pin cushion-like knobs, and they certainly are too bitter to eat after the flowers are in full bloom (though the blossoms make awesome wine). I chop the base off, pull out any leaves that have hung on through winter's cold (they'll be pale and wilted), and steam them. Then I rinse them and squeeze all of the excess moisture out. I chop them fine and use them as I would steamed spinach or kale.<br />
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Besides my pursuit of how best to eat weeds, I am a bit of a cookbook hoarder. People ask me why I still read cookbooks now that everything can be found on Dr. Google. I just like the feel of the book in my hand, and the ability to jump from page to page and back again without getting dizzy when those pages go flicking by on my Kindle or my monitor.<br />
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I have Judith Olney's <i>The Farm Market Cookbook </i>(1991). In it, she describes farmer's markets across the country and how they've contributed to bringing the farm back to the table. <br />
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Bradford, age 8, enjoying dandelions</div>
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There is a recipe for Maggie's Spinach Nutmeg Muffins for which I used dandelion greens instead of the spinach called for, and used smoked gouda cheese instead of Swiss cheese (dandelion greens are amazing with bacon, so the smoked cheese kind of reminded me of that pairing).<br />
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Ironically, I googled Maggie Middleton, who at the time of Olney's writing, owned with her partner, a burgeoning bakery business in Carrboro, NC. She retired from the business just 6 years later, died in 2009, and requested that donations in her name go to LIVESTRONG, Lance Armstrong's charity. How fickle life is, where we perceive one reality, and it later turns into another. Perhaps fame, instead of scandal, will some day be the fate of the harbinger of spring here in the northeast, the dandelion weed.<br />
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Here is an adapted version of Maggie Middleton's muffin recipe from Olney's book. I made them using gluten-free flour, and they were awesome.<br />
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<b>2 cups all-purpose flour or gluten-free flour</b></div>
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<b>1 1/2 teaspoons baking powder</b></div>
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<b>1/2 teaspoon baking soda</b></div>
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<b>1/4 teaspoon nutmeg</b></div>
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<b>2 tablespoons sugar</b></div>
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<b>1/2 teaspoon salt</b></div>
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<b>1 cup buttermilk</b></div>
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<b>2 tablespoons butter, melted</b></div>
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<b>1/2 cup grated smoked gouda cheese</b></div>
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<b>1/2 cup grated parmesan cheese</b></div>
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<b>1 egg</b></div>
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<b>10 oz dandelion greens, washed well, base chopped and discarded, steamed and squeezed dry</b></div>
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Preheat oven to 400 degrees F. Grease a 12-cup muffin tin.</div>
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Stir the dry ingredients together in a bowl.</div>
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Chop the cooked dandelion greens. In another bowl, combine the greens, buttermilk, butter, half of each of the cheeses and the egg.</div>
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Make a well in the dry ingredients, and stir in the the liquid. Don't combine them to a smooth consistency- they can stay chunky. Spoon the batter equally into the tins, sprinkle with the remaining cheese, and stick them in the oven.</div>
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Bake for 20-25 minutes. Remove the tin from the oven, and let rest for 5 minutes before popping them out. </div>
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These are great with cream of asparagus soup. You'll have to pull out a cookbook or google that recipe.</div>
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fat rooster farmhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13454101442908709731noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4423350024112030232.post-41499815084692377022012-03-28T10:44:00.000-04:002012-03-28T10:44:28.758-04:00Horseradish<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"> <br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: center;"><o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;">We’ve just come off of seven days of unusual heat, with five of the days being record-breakers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The spring peepers, green frogs and wood frogs have been singing up a storm and laying eggs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Bradford held jellyfish-like clusters of eggs in his hands in our flooded fields and pleaded to bring some home to raise.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My magnolia is blooming, as is the redbud, the crab and the flowering almond.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The daylilies are poking out of the ground almost 5 inches high, and the garlic is pushing 6 inches.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s the middle of March.</span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Tonight, I’ll cover what I can, but frankly, I think we’re doomed for a major setback.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>All day, since 4 am, the wind has been howling, and the temperature dropping.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I even kept the sheep inside today, despite the sun.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They are freshly shorn (meaning their wool has been removed), and I wouldn’t appreciate being out in this without a winter coat if I were them.</span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">The plants have definitely been confused by this climate change, but surprisingly, the birds are still right on schedule.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’ve kept a log of what arrives back on the farm since 1997, and they are within a week of normal. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">On the other hand, Kyle harvested horseradish yesterday (we usually do this in the fall, but there were some escapees from the raised bed).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I also harvested wild leeks that are usually blanketed under many feet of snow at this time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The mosquitoes were out in full force as I put an electric fence around the wrapped hay bales (the sheep are blowing through the single strand fence to get at the lush, green grass), and the ticks are crazy bad.</span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Did you know that horseradish is actually a <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Brassica</i>, meaning it’s related to broccoli, cabbage and mustard?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s been used since the middle ages, mostly medicinally back then, and its origin is most likely south eastern Europe or western Asia.</span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">We tend not to use it much as Americans, unless it’s on our roast beef, in our shrimp cocktail sauce or as an essential ingredient to a bloody Mary.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The stuff we Americans think of as Wasabi is usually not the root of the Wasabi plant (which although is related to horseradish is generally not found outside of<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Japan due to the difficulty in propagating it).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Instead, what we call Wasabi is a mixture of horseradish, mustard and green food coloring.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Still good though.</span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Horseradish is a perennial and pretty easy to grow.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The best way to harvest it is in the fall, when you divide the roots; older roots will get woody and tough, whereas new growth is slender and spirited.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I like to prepare it with vinegar, salt and a little mustard oil (you can get this at ethnic markets).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’ll keep in the fridge for months, but when it starts turning brown, it’s lost its zing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Propagating it is pretty simple too; just pull the whole root out and lop off the top inch or two with the new growth.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Stick it in the soil medium, and water it until it develops new roots.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then transplant it into your bed outside.</span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I’m eating horseradish now, as the wind whips by the farm, bringing with it the sting of a March going out like a lion.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We all knew it was abnormal to have sunburns at this time when we’re usually slogging through mud and snow.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Hopefully the rest of spring will even out in temperament.</span></div><br />
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<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Braised Pork with Vinegar, Horseradish and Mashed Potatoes</span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Pork:<o:p></o:p></span></b></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">2 tbsp oil</span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">2-3 pounds of pork shoulder, fresh ham, or chops</span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Salt and pepper </span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">2 cups onions, sliced or small, whole</span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">½ cup red wine vinegar</span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">½ cup dry red wine</span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Parsley for garnish</span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">2 tbsp prepared horseradish</span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><br />
</div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">In a Dutch oven or covered cast iron casserole dish, heat the oil.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Add the meat and brown on both sides, turning every so often (about 2-3 minutes).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Season with salt and pepper as you do this.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Use medium heat so the fat doesn’t burn.</span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Take the meat out, then add the onions, vinegar and wine.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Cook until the onions are translucent.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Shred the meat and return it to the sauce.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Serve over mashed potatoes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Garnish with parsley and prepared horseradish.</span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Mashed Potatoes</b>:</span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Russet Potatoes, quartered, scrubbed, but not peeled</span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Cream</span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Salt and Pepper</span></div><br />
<div style="border-color: currentColor currentColor rgb(79, 129, 189); border-style: none none solid; border-width: medium medium 1pt; mso-border-bottom-themecolor: accent1; mso-element: para-border-div; padding: 0in 0in 4pt;"> <div class="MsoTitle" style="margin: 0in 0in 15pt;"><span style="font-family: Cambria;"><span style="color: windowtext;">Put the quartered potatoes in a pan and fill 1/3 with cream.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Cook gently, covered, until the potatoes are soft.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Mash lightly (don’t mix them too much, or they’ll turn to mush) and season to taste with salt and pepper.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Keep warm.</span><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div></div></div>fat rooster farmhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13454101442908709731noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4423350024112030232.post-16750446849551300162011-08-22T15:06:00.000-04:002011-08-22T15:06:57.296-04:00The Power of a Small Storm<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I can’t recall how many times I’ve said this summer; thank god I’m not farming this year.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not in the true sense of the word, anyway, not with apprentices and farmer’s markets on Saturdays and Wednesdays, not filling wholesale and retail accounts on Tuesdays and Thursdays and Fridays.</span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">For one, we’ve had one of, if not the most rainy springs on record.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Our fields were so compacted that when we went to dig up the garlic, Kyle had to double dig them with a spade fork, and then I still had to pull and clean the heads.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They made it, though, and we’re selling all that we can process, just Kyle and I.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It makes for long hours sitting in the dust and chaff of the hay mow, cutting and trimming, then smoothing the outer dried and dirtied skins off.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sometimes Pat the barn cat or Moomee<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>the housecat joins me, sashshaying back and forth, looking for attention.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Occasionally, a hen will enter and wonder what I’m doing there, sitting in the dusky light, peeling and humming.</span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">As far as the other crops, most of the gardens have been rotated through cover crops that are intended to suppress weed growth and beef up the biomass in the soil.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Our mustard trials look like they did well:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>they held the dreaded Galinsoga <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>weed at bay while feeding the honey bees and a myriad of other insect life.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then, the plants contributed a ton to the soil, first mowed, then plowed into the earth.</span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">After the mustard, we planted buckwheat for the bees.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s also a great weed smother crop, but there are those that swear cover crops don’t do anything to suppress weeds.</span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Which brings me to another favorite topic- the very idea of what is or isn’t a weed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I try very hard to instill in my son the need to remember that destroying some form of life just for the heck of it is not acceptable; the line we draw on what we destroy is a little hard to justify, however.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Why, he asks, is it okay to kill a tomato hornworm, bent on destroying the tomatoes, but not the swallowtail caterpillar, eating through the dill and fennel?</span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Or how about the topic of the “invasives”, those plants considered a menace to ecosystems, like kudzu vine, or honeysuckle or bittersweet.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They’re taking over the landscape, changing it, altering the rest of the life there.</span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Then there are the honeybees, non-natives from Europe, who have almost certainly displaced natives here, but who give us sweet honey.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And how about earth worms, also not native, but carried over in the timbers of tall ships from across the seas, that now have permanently altered the soil structure in our forests and pastures and have most certainly added to its fertility.</span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Today, a thunderstorm has visited us twice.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>First, with winds so strong that they brought down black locust trees and our fields of corn, just tassled and ready to begin ripening.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Hail, the size of marbles pelted <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>the plants and cars and machinery.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Beautiful to look at, but not so much if you’re a zucchini plant.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Or Nancy, the little Modern Game bantam hen, who miraculously hatched out five chicks and has raised four almost to fledging (independence).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At one point during the storm, I looked out and saw her and her brood being swept across the driveway in the wind and driving hail and rain, and screamed to Kyle and Bradford to come rescue them (I have broken my foot and am up to my knee in a cast, so am quite useless).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The two boys found the brood, stashed behind a rock here and a piece of wood there and brought them, dripping wet, into the house, to their cockatiel cage, where they reside at night.</span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Every time a thunderstorm comes, it fixes nitrogen, and thus it’s instant fertilizer.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That’s why it looks so green after a thunderstorm.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For this, I can give thanks; for my flattened corn, I’m not so happy.</span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Bradford and Kyle spent the afternoon cutting up the tree that crashed across the round bales of hay .<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I swallowed a pit inside my stomach, watching my little son, who is not so little anymore, driving the tractor by himself to the pit with the tree’s limbs, while his father carved up the tree. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">It’s the little storms that seem to mask the big transitions without anyone noticing. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And in one summer, while the farm was at rest, my boy has been growing, fast- forward, toward not being a baby anymore.</span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Good thing this empty nest needs a wicked good cleaning.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgX2eu_0L_S79Nq59pixf-nwcqQdPAHqLp-jsMyOoC7LA5wuvxbhClyQVeve8_poUQpwjbJZcSTOjpjmZ_jZKKnNQXUEjsT2KLdOcs9logX1E-4fCMfACgRLli87IYKlaAB3XXSM57_Tm0/s1600/DSCF8747.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgX2eu_0L_S79Nq59pixf-nwcqQdPAHqLp-jsMyOoC7LA5wuvxbhClyQVeve8_poUQpwjbJZcSTOjpjmZ_jZKKnNQXUEjsT2KLdOcs9logX1E-4fCMfACgRLli87IYKlaAB3XXSM57_Tm0/s320/DSCF8747.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiC6klGRbs4iQnzBymK4Gx-El8kKh8xAVocx0TPaPGPcVf-iCA-6gnZW3yzuw-KEwYC0H9uLuZvu6FxEQbA1LwAV3BThM-qPCo_AwkHdNvJdGf8wLDI2gQTs7nwGTAq67hr6QgW7iF-dHw/s1600/nancy+and+kids.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="241" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiC6klGRbs4iQnzBymK4Gx-El8kKh8xAVocx0TPaPGPcVf-iCA-6gnZW3yzuw-KEwYC0H9uLuZvu6FxEQbA1LwAV3BThM-qPCo_AwkHdNvJdGf8wLDI2gQTs7nwGTAq67hr6QgW7iF-dHw/s320/nancy+and+kids.JPG" width="320" /></a></div></div>fat rooster farmhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13454101442908709731noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4423350024112030232.post-15619794237236579482011-04-21T10:56:00.000-04:002011-04-21T10:56:39.569-04:00AprilBy the time we Vermonters reach April, we’re usually pretty tired of the raw, cold Northeastern weather. Even more so because the weather tricks us with brilliant days of sunshine and temperatures in the 60s, only to fall back down into the freezing cold 20s and blustery winds that accompany. I always tell people that it snows on my birthday (the 12th). Today, it’s snowing, spitting, not quite sure it’s ready to give up the ghost of winter. A winter, which I might add, is one reminiscent of the ones that I remember when I was a child- snowy, cold and long. <br />
<br />
The snowplow knocked the entire western part of our fence down, careening mounds of snow from Morse Road into the adjacent pasture. Kyle spent two hours digging and burying new corner posts, just one small step toward fixing the fence that keeps the animals from jaunting down to Route 14. Which is what the calves (I call them the three mooskateers) learned to do, ditching over the downed fence, and running head-long toward the busy road. The ground was frozen when they first learned this game, so they’ve spent the last three weeks tied up in the barn. More work for us, mucking out stanchions, and less sunlight for them. Yesterday, the ground was finally soft enough that I was able to put up portable fencing to make a temporary paddock (I don’t want them out on the fragile pasture just yet), and out they went this morning.<br />
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For those of you who’ve never seen a cow cavort, it’s highly unnatural. Cows don’t tend to run for fun; they run if they feel threatened. So they don’t kick up their heels naturally, like a colt or a lamb would, and they don’t know what to do with their tails. Whoever decided that a cow can’t express joy has never seen one who’s been let outside after three weeks of confinement. They bark low grunts and blow foam from their mouths and bend their backs while trying to keep their feet under them (but they can’t resist the urge to splay them this way or that). They hold their tails high up over their backs, wagging them madly back and forth, like some victory flag. The mooskateers play Daytona 500 around the round bale of hay, not interested in eating just yet.<br />
<br />
I fully intend to see them blow through the temporary fencing, because the calves have not yet been trained to electric fence, and the moms, well, they’re too blissed out to care.<br />
<br />
Most of the lambs went to the Easter market last Sunday. The barn is slowly returning to normal, without 35 lambs running up and down the aisles and the 300 pound barn-bound calves no longer knocking over buckets and shovels and pulling halters off the walls. By this time last year, we had crops in the ground: lettuce, spring onions, spinach, chard and kale. The animals were out on pasture. In 2009, I remember Shannon and Tyler house sat for us while we were in Maine, and the temperatures soared to the 80s. Good thing I’m not trying to grow stuff for market this year!<br />
<br />
Instead, I’m spending my time foraging in the woods for fiddleheads and wild leeks. May flowers are out (round-lobed hepatica), and the trillium and jack-in-the-pulpit are peeking up through last year’s leaves. Make no doubt about it: mud season is still in full swing. But spring is trying, and when it finally gets here, I’ll probably kick up my heels and dance like a cow in the sunlight.<br />
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiA8Z4iBmXW7Gaz8yW-wOAkUNHLcti0JaPINsX-_rlD1svedxigL5-N9GPrFg5GLWGczrFhG9HOb96rZo8O28ILRNTW7Tt0ZIAOCw5P6p6Lae6qi7P9VtoriPxQSRBDIqSnaRoHfSsmkkc/s1600/mud+season.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="241" i8="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiA8Z4iBmXW7Gaz8yW-wOAkUNHLcti0JaPINsX-_rlD1svedxigL5-N9GPrFg5GLWGczrFhG9HOb96rZo8O28ILRNTW7Tt0ZIAOCw5P6p6Lae6qi7P9VtoriPxQSRBDIqSnaRoHfSsmkkc/s320/mud+season.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">mud season</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiztfB4DM5mNphKhUvwoWhAwDs7vjQIXhpmtA7MM8XgscJKusZ52pzE6jHv07lBzq0F_kREXcho9W1ATST40CzTh4aqINt1QT99Hxxm7qkl1CpNmWrpj2Z4FZ3XNlpWmp49PZiawyNFcXg/s1600/pot+hole.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" i8="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiztfB4DM5mNphKhUvwoWhAwDs7vjQIXhpmtA7MM8XgscJKusZ52pzE6jHv07lBzq0F_kREXcho9W1ATST40CzTh4aqINt1QT99Hxxm7qkl1CpNmWrpj2Z4FZ3XNlpWmp49PZiawyNFcXg/s320/pot+hole.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; text-align: center;">pot hole</td></tr>
</tbody></table> <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitGc8Cwf6vlQsYX92hxlctIn2cFvFftS47J0PL7znTuCuOAKOgZpmZtzCKSI-gjYQgJYybFITyvNENytvAIvVLMUqIbM3sScPzs2AA7ejIZAkBMSyegr5o8GqoJTy5-J3Zunijf1BP0lU/s1600/rebirth+2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" i8="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitGc8Cwf6vlQsYX92hxlctIn2cFvFftS47J0PL7znTuCuOAKOgZpmZtzCKSI-gjYQgJYybFITyvNENytvAIvVLMUqIbM3sScPzs2AA7ejIZAkBMSyegr5o8GqoJTy5-J3Zunijf1BP0lU/s320/rebirth+2.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">wild leeks</td></tr>
</tbody></table>fat rooster farmhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13454101442908709731noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4423350024112030232.post-5126976566963841362011-03-23T08:06:00.001-04:002011-03-23T08:13:32.292-04:00Switch HitI teach Animal Behavior at Vermont Technical College. I have to admit it’s been challenging. Not only have I been out of the formal teaching scene for 9 years, but I feel like my teaching style is still back where it used to be: hands-on, visual, non-Power-Point or Blackboard oriented. For those of you oldies, like me, Power-Point dominates the teaching style. It’s computer-based, and a virtual slideshow with hyperlinks and imbedded images. You slap your pen drive into the main network with your class material, and voila, it magically appears on the screen, and the whole class is mesmerized by a slideshow. BORING. <br />
<br />
<br />
Blackboard, or Moodle are online campus communication systems that allow the students to track their grades and assignments online. People don’t go to the library to read reserved material anymore; it’s on Blackboard that they just magically log into on their PC or tablet or iPhone.<br />
<br />
Every part of the syllabus and class is virtually uploadable, so they can see if they’re failing or passing. Of course the input provided by the professor needs to be accurate: it wasn’t until week 9 that I realized I was loading quiz scores as assignments. When I made the switch, the grades changed dramatically. Whoops, sorry students…<br />
<br />
One time I went to class and realized that I had attached the wrong lecture on the Blackboard, so they hadn’t studied for the correct material (major grade curve).<br />
<br />
Another time I tried to explain the difference between positive reinforcement and negative punishment. Several students had the courage to point out the fact that I had completely reversed them. As a result, we have dropped this subject line completely until I have the gumption to try and explain it again…<br />
<br />
Teaching is like farming, in the fact that there is a lot of switch-hitting going on. The difference is that in farming, when your plan falls through the floor, most of the animals and plants don’t know that you just bluffed your way through the day. When fifteen pairs of 20- or 30- something year-old eyes look at you and say: Really?- there’s not much you can get away with (if the corn doesn’t get weeded when you say you’re going to weed it, it’s usually a little more understanding).<br />
<br />
Eleven year -olds don’t expect switch hits. In fact, my eleven year-old detests them. He would much rather have a routine than my potpourri of surprises. But I am about to embark upon the greatest switch hit I’ve made since graduating at the University of Vermont with a B.S. in Wildlife Biology. Back then, I noticed a job notice advertising for a volunteer seabird biologist on a remote Hawaiian Island; room board, airfare paid for, student loans deferred. <br />
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I lived on Tern Island in the Northwestern Hawaiian Islands for almost four years, first as a volunteer, and then as the refuge manager. Five hundred miles northwest of Kauai, on a remnant volcano, surrounded by aqua-blue water and seabirds, seals and turtles, I had an experience that changed my life- for the better. If I had stayed in Vermont and assumed my job as interior decorator in the local store in Middlebury, I think that my life would be vastly different- and boring.<br />
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My eleven year-old is wired in. DSL, PSP, Wii, Dish, I can’t even keep up with it all. He doesn’t have any of those things, but I hear about them every day, and how boring his life is without them. <br />
<br />
Still- he is ecstatic when the moon is so full and bright that it fills the entire backdoor window. He coos at the sight of the first gray squirrel we’ve ever had on the farm when he catches it gathering nesting material (there’s another squirrel in the area, apparently). His love of birds is growing, and he now has a flock of laying hens that is so productive that we supply a major grocery store in Norwich.<br />
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And so, it’s time for me to change it out. I’m taking the summer off from retail farming. Yep, it’s true. No pigs, no meat birds, no 2 acres of vegetables in production. Fallow fields with cover crops and green manures, fallow hoop houses, fewer sheep, and fewer bales of hay. I’m going to construct a Facebook event to barter the cows to a new farmer, with the stipulation that I get something back in the end. No turkeys, no Guineas, geese or ducks. No farmer’s markets. I’ll still have enough for us and for our small CSA, but, nope, nope and nope, I’m spending the summer with my son.<br />
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I feel as though I have an opportunity to do something with him for one last time as he changes from eleven to tweenager, and what I’d like to do is hike the Long Trail in Vermont.<br />
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Is this crazy? Some people think so. The majority of people I tell look at me, worriedly, like I’m giving up. But I’m not.<br />
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I have four freezers full of meat. I have shelves lined with canned vegetables, fruits, juice and jellies. I am farming, but I am concentrating instead on soil-building and conservation.<br />
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Is there the chance that I’ll lose my customer base? Yes, but I got it once, and I am confident that I’ll get it again. What I’m not at all sure of is that I’ll have a working relationship with my son for the next five years unless I take the effort to interact with him now. <br />
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I’m still a certified organic farm inspector for North Eastern Organic Farming Association, still a vet-tech at VT-Can! in Middlesex, and still a farmer. Just a different kind of one for the summer.<br />
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Today the hiking boots that I bid on through eBay arrived. Tomorrow, a high-tech flashlight will come in the mail. I have the tent and the sleeping bags. Now, just to convince the boy…<br />
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</div>fat rooster farmhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13454101442908709731noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4423350024112030232.post-58165189804718702532011-03-18T09:50:00.000-04:002011-03-18T09:50:39.536-04:00Who Falls In Love With A Cow?Kyle has forgotten that it’s the end of daylight savings time, so he can’t ride the Dartmouth Coach to Logan airport in Boston to catch his plane to New Orleans. He’s headed there for a week-long conference through the National Park Service- the first continuing ed program he’s attended in about 15 years. So I’m driving him there, but right now, it’s 3 am regular (well used-to-be) time, and we’re doing the chores while Bradford sleeps inside the farmhouse. <br />
<br />
<br />
Kyle comes racing in from the horse barn to the main barn, where I am mucking out the cow stanchions and grabs a flashlight. “Jennifer, come!” he yell-whispers, then puts his finger to his lips, shushing my inevitable “why?”<br />
<br />
We sneak out to the horse barn, where the door is open, but the lights are not on. There is an owl, a Barred Owl, sitting on top of the manure heap just a few feet away from us, looking down at the remains of my pet cow, Tildy Anne. We have composted her here, and now, this raptor is taking advantage of her remains. Here, too, congregate crows, starlings and red-tailed hawks in the daytime, and at night, foxes, mice and voles. It’s the little vermin that the owl is most likely trying to hunt in this snowy winter, where all of the animals that are dependent upon ground-dwelling rodents are desperate for a food source that is safely protected under the thick blanket of snow.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Who falls in love with a cow?<br />
<br />
There’s no shame in fawning over the family dog, cute stuffed toy in mouth, or in swooning over the antics of the fuzzy, energetic cat as it pounces on the toilet paper roll.<br />
<br />
But who falls in love with a cow?<br />
<br />
My husband used to fight wild fires. He’d be flown out west, far from our eastern bubble in Vermont, and do “mop up,” not the spectacular sky jumping, but one of the crew that would come in after the blaze and make sure that it was really put out. On one of these excursions, I was left in our newly rented trailer in Vermont. It had taken me nine years to figure out a way back to my birth state and we had finally succeeded when Kyle was hired as the Ecologist for the new national park- the first in Vermont- at Marsh Billings Rockefeller in Woodstock. We found a trailer to live in with our menagerie of chickens, ducks, geese, goats, a horse and three sheep, a dog and four cats. When Kyle left to fight a fire out west, I felt as though I had not a clue what to do with myself. It was 1998 and February, a notoriously brutal month in Vermont, and I was sick of watching Bill Clinton try and lamely defend himself to the nation with his explanation of what sex was.<br />
<br />
I had recently quit my job as refuge biologist for the Department of Interior on Monomoy Island , Cape Cod, Massachusetts. My days in Vermont were spent walking miles around the hillsides and back roads in search of a farm for us to purchase. On one foray, I stopped at a dairy farm and asked if the farmer would sell me milk. At first, he was wary, being in his 70s, and having grown used to our litigious society- his generation was built upon bartering and community- he wondered why I was asking. He finally agreed to sell me milk after I explained what Kyle and I wanted to do- to start farming in Vermont. He had three cows- Guernseys, from which he sold milk to neighbors directly from his farm. This was all done underground, because it had become illegal to sell milk in Vermont unless it was bottled and pasteurized in an inspected facility. So, for $3 a gallon, I could walk a mile to the farm and get organic, raw milk.<br />
<br />
Back then, I didn’t have an iPod, so I listened as I walked, to the river, cracking its ice during the spring thaw, to the return of the first red-winged blackbirds, to the whish, whish of cars driving back and forth on Route 14 in the rural valleys of central-eastern Vermont.<br />
<br />
Kyle would be gone for a little over two week intervals on the fires, but it seemed like much longer, especially in the winter months, when I am at the bottom of my game, because, well, even though I’m a Vermonter, I hate winter and I hate the cold. The walk to the farm was blissful to me.<br />
<br />
When Kyle had been away for 9 days, I walked to get milk, and Bob, the farmer, asked me if I’d like a calf. He would breed his dairy cows to beef bulls (by way of artificial insemination) because he thought that they would become pregnant more easily by diversifying the genetics. The calf was a Guernsey-Hereford heifer- a female- and he had no use for her, because being half beef, she wouldn’t be a great milker, and being a dairy farmer, he wasn’t interested in raising beef. Besides that, Vermont farmers tend to frown on raising their heifers for slaughter, because it’s a perfectly good waste of an animal that is slow to mature and then replaces itself at the most only once a year (the boys, on the other hand, are usually expendable).<br />
<br />
So I waited for Kyle to call me (this was before cell phones were bought and sold as easily as baseball cards used to be), and I asked him what I should do- I knew nothing about cattle. In true to form style, he said, “Do what you want to do.” <br />
<br />
Having lived with each other for almost two decades now, he realizes the weight of these words, and after llamas, rabbits, white-tailed deer fawns and baby woodchucks, I don’t hear them as often.<br />
<br />
I stuffed the heifer in the back of my Toyota Tercel, her eyes as wide as mine, and we unloaded at the trailer. I had made a make-shift shelter for her in a shed stuffed to the gills with the owner’s prized possessions that were too valuable to chuck—broken window panes, spent lawn mowers, rusting sap buckets and bent nails. She was 6 days old. I bottle fed her and walked her outside, and by the time Kyle got home, she was halter trained. I named her Fern, but our 90 year-old friend told me that that was no name for a cow- that her name should be Matildy Anne. And so she was.<br />
<br />
Tildy was the lead cow of our herd. She’d tell me when the fence was down (by bellowing, but not getting out, even when the rest of the herd was in the garden), she’d be the first to lead everyone back into the barn in November, when the grass had gone, and the days would be spent eating hay in the paddock outside, but the nights would be spent tied in stanchions in the barn. She’d always have her babies on the wrong side of the electric fence, so we’d have to fish them out of the woods or the brook, and she’d be the peace keeper when new cows would join the herd.<br />
<br />
Her biggest fault was an insatiable appetite for grain. She could figure out six ways to Sunday how to get to the grain in the barrel inside the barn, and on more than one occasion we had to chain her up and send dark beer down her gullet to kick start her bacteria in her stomach. Not this time.<br />
<br />
This time, she knocked in the plywood wall and weaseled her way through the fenced gate to find the barrel. By the time I got to the barn, there was more than 60 pounds of it missing. When I found her, she was down, outside, and freezing cold temperatures were about to arrive after a bout of rain and snow. I could leave her outside or bring her in to treat her inside, running the risk that she would die, and then there would be a 900-pound body to deal with.<br />
<br />
If it had been any other cow, not my pet cow, the practical thing would have been to keep her outside, but I couldn’t do it. So after crying on her pelt and pleading with her to get up, she did, and we made it to the barn. After two days of vetting, she crashed, and Kyle and I decided that she had had enough.<br />
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The life and death constant of farming is so overwhelming sometimes, especially when it’s winter, when there is no birdsong or no warm bath of sunlight to keep your spirits up. Winter especially brings death: the sickest, the oldest, the inexperienced all succumb.<br />
<br />
If I called the vet to kill my cow, he would inject her with a substance that would be lethal to anything that would eat her later, and, although I frequently wish ill-will on coyotes, foxes and skunks, not all of them learn to eat my animals. And what about the red-tailed hawk, which has spent the winter here, perched in the dead cherry tree? Or the bald eagle that came to eat a lamb who never took a first breath? What about the barn cat that feeds on the carcasses of dead animals, or the birds and field mice that pick the bones clean? There was no point in even trying to dig a hole in the frozen ground beneath the three feet of snow, so the only option was to kill her myself by shooting her and to compost her.<br />
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Suffice it to say that I consider myself a pretty strong, practical type, when it comes to raising and eating animals and plants. But I have yet to be able to eat anything beef after Kyle and I killed Tildy Anne. Every time I look at beef, I see Tildy Anne, my first cow, whom I knew nothing about, and who taught me that farming isn’t just something I do, it’s something I have to do.<br />
<br />
Today the cats and I lounged on the deck that overlooks the snow-covered fields, in the heat of a 50 degree spring day. The three new calves, Martin, Nestor and Fur Ball, are racing around in the paddock with their tails held high up over their backs. Their mothers are chewing their cuds and watching them play. Cider is Tildy’s three-year-old calf, and she is Fur Ball’s mother. She’s no lead cow. It looks as though Ginger, the petite Jersey-Ayshire cross may take over, her head always held high, sniffing the wind for signs. It may be an interesting summer, spent chasing calves and cows back inside fences. Hopefully, Tildy is watching somewhere and will give me a sign when the herd gets into the sweet corn.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0XD47VQ1ayhlrN7wT6JF4kdTnpNmvqk84tJXEjefnVzS7jOkrhbmB26BdK4LdaNY3TZXR2cE6EkXJizmGKJpTaxAsHaWEYv6-cVbYBX_eZLWkDa-MdTxk1HnLkx2dLxBtiXQwZ9_0WQo/s1600/tildy+anne+2011.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" r6="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0XD47VQ1ayhlrN7wT6JF4kdTnpNmvqk84tJXEjefnVzS7jOkrhbmB26BdK4LdaNY3TZXR2cE6EkXJizmGKJpTaxAsHaWEYv6-cVbYBX_eZLWkDa-MdTxk1HnLkx2dLxBtiXQwZ9_0WQo/s320/tildy+anne+2011.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>fat rooster farmhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13454101442908709731noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4423350024112030232.post-77716626421253691742010-11-08T14:48:00.000-05:002010-11-08T14:48:04.268-05:00Borsch, Borshch, Borscht- Beet SoupI made beet soup today, the kind that is often made throughout Russia and Poland. I looked at four different recipes and combined them to make up my own concoction.<br />
Of course, all of the recipes call for beets. Some of them shred the beets, some boil, some hold off adding them until the very end to get the brightest color in the soup.<br />
Another decision is whether to serve the soup hot or cold. I suppose it w<br />
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ould be better to puree the soup were you to serve it cold, but I took the more peasant-like approach and match-sticked the vegetables and served it warm. I also added meat, like some of the recipes call for, and sipping cold meat stew is not my favorite.<br />
For the most part, the ingredients were from the farm. I went to the local co-op for crimini mushrooms and a leek. We didn’t plant leeks this year, because I had planned to plant the pencil-thin ones that I had stored in the root cellar over winter. Of course, farming got in the way, and the leeks rotted before I had a chance to plant them in the ground. So when I found that the co-op was out of leeks, I just went to the source, to Luna Bleu Farm, right down the road and dug two out of the ground.<br />
Kyle brushed hogged the gardens today, getting ready for the first official “wintery mix” forecast of 2010. Bradford got three new chickens- black cochin bantams, and I helped the local trapper scope out the best place to set traps to capture the marauding coyotes that have taken a liking to our sheep. They’ve killed two and injured two. <br />
First, it killed a lamb, and Drew and I set about scouting the area every day twice a day. Nothing for a week, and then, at three in the morning, I heard the frenzied calls that they utter after making a kill, when they call in the subordinate members of the pack for dinner.<br />
That morning, the neighbor called and said that another sheep had been killed, bringing the total to two. One of the parents that she babysits for had seen it dead in the field as he drove to her house to drop off his child. <br />
At the same time, Bradford came up from the barn and told us that there was a sheep in the chicken house. I struggled to figure out how this could be possible, since the flock was about a quarter of a mile away from the barn. Where was the rest of the flock?<br />
Sure enough, when I went to check, there was a black yearling lamb in the barn, all by herself. She was limping a bit, and looked frantic. So I set out for the field where the rest of the flock was supposed to be. I carried the .22 rifle with me, but I didn’t really expect to get a shot at the coyote.<br />
In the field, the sheep were scattered, and there was the body of number 46 green. It was the mother of the lamb in the barn. All the other sheep in the field side-stepped the gruesome, half eaten carcass, and were looking at me, I think reproachfully.<br />
I gathered the horse up (who stays in the field to protect them, but has become quite deaf and a little blind in one eye), and led them back to the home pasture. One of the yearling lambs was badly injured, and the entire flock was so subdued, that when Kyle opened the gate, they willingly walked in without protest. The injured lamb stayed behind, dripping blood from her hind leg.<br />
It’s a lamb that has become tame for no apparent reason. She has three freckles under each eye, and when I go out into the fields, she approaches me. She’s not a bottle lamb (one that I have raised by feeding it myself from a bottle), or one that an apprentice has taken a shining to and has been cuddled - just a ewe lamb that decided to be friendly. Good thing, because, had she been wild, I don’t think I could have helped her.<br />
Instead, we gathered her up and brought her in the barn. I laid her on her side, and saw how badly she had been injured. A major artery was spewing blood so fast that it was not even pulsing - just a steady beet-red stream of blood.<br />
While I fetched packing and tape to try and stop the blood, the ewe lay still, not flinching. I used old pillow cases that we use to store root vegetables in and duct tape to make a rough tourniquet. Then I gave her a dose of antibiotics that I have for emergencies and put her in with the llama.<br />
When the trapper came, he looked at where the kills had occurred, and he chose two sites to set bait. He looked like an artist, a skilled painter of a canvas set for a battle scene. He set the traps and told me when to come and check them.<br />
And I will, tomorrow, after this warm night of beet soup and pirozhki.<br />
<br />
<br />
1 lb ground lamb<br />
4 quarts chicken broth<br />
1 ½ pound beets, cooked (boil until skins slip, then dice finely)<br />
2 cups sauerkraut<br />
1 ½ cups carrots, cut into matchsticks<br />
1 parsnip (about 1 cup) cut into matchsticks<br />
1 cup chopped celery, including leaves<br />
1 cup coarsely chopped leek<br />
1 cup onion, diced<br />
1 tablespoon minced garlic<br />
1 cup cubed potatoes<br />
1 cup canned, stewed tomatoes<br />
1 cup chopped crimini mushrooms<br />
2 tablespoons red wine or cider vinegar<br />
2 bay leaves<br />
1 ½ teaspoons kosher salt<br />
½ teaspoon ground black pepper<br />
4 whole allspice berries<br />
1 tablespoon lemon juice<br />
1 tablespoon dill<br />
sour cream<br />
<br />
Bring the broth and meat to boil, then skim and set to simmer for 20 minutes. Add all of the vegetables except the tomatoes and mushrooms and simmer for another 25 minutes. Add the tomatoes, mushrooms, vinegar, bay leaves, salt, pepper, and allspice. Cook another 15 minutes. Check the seasoning, and add lemon juice if needed. Garnish with dill and sour cream in the bowls.<br />
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<br />
-Adapted from the following cookbooks: Bon Appetit Country Cooking (Viking Press 1978), Local Flavors, Deborah Madison (Broadway Books 2002), Great Dishes of the World, Robert Carrier (Random House 1964), The Martha Stewart Living Cookbook (Clarkson Potter Publishers, 2007).fat rooster farmhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13454101442908709731noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4423350024112030232.post-31236734300887106432010-08-02T20:58:00.004-04:002010-08-02T21:05:09.760-04:00August and Everything After<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqQ_A3dT66HgiE-xNi3aAYZssrpOGjq2AUMv9Kb1lnu_mthfb5zXXeYtrSN5569HouNdZYyBnSLCEQbC6zp04evaMRnPWzMSDI7NvM1erFyXN-a8RD3qhtYtf7_aTyDt91S_eJ7KlpTJc/s1600/002.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqQ_A3dT66HgiE-xNi3aAYZssrpOGjq2AUMv9Kb1lnu_mthfb5zXXeYtrSN5569HouNdZYyBnSLCEQbC6zp04evaMRnPWzMSDI7NvM1erFyXN-a8RD3qhtYtf7_aTyDt91S_eJ7KlpTJc/s320/002.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5500982432472234066" /></a><br />One of my most annoying traits is to tell everyone how many now- famous bands I’ve seen before they were famous. <br /><br /> U2 played at the tiny, SUNY, Delhi school in the Catskills, where I attended Veterinary Technology training in 1981, just after they came out with Sunday, Bloody Sunday. Bono jumped off twelve foot high speakers, and I touched The Edge’s hand. The gym held about 400 screaming people.<br /><br />I saw Ani DiFranco diss obnoxious fans into submission at the Newport Folk Festival, Tracy Chapman launch her comeback at Smith College, Quiet Riot play in Northampton after the lead singer bought a futon from my sister and gave us free tickets to the show, and the Counting Crows the day before they went on Letterman.<br /><br />The Avett Brothers played the Chandler and brought the crowd to its feet for three hours, much to the chagrin of some of the older chaperones. I saw Steve Earle silence a moody crowd in Burlington as he tried to pay tribute to Towns Van Zandt, when all they wanted was for him to sing songs about his Appalachian upbringing.<br /><br />Music has always been important to me. It’s one of those wonders that I actually admire humans for. Watching the Random Canyon Growlers play in their hometown at the Chandler, with such pride and skill, thrilled me.<br /><br />Yet music has nothing to do with farming. Right? <br /><br /> In August, everything becomes a routine. We’ve weeded for days on end, harvested almost everything at least once that we will grow throughout the season; sold, canned, frozen and butchered most of what the farm has to offer. So in August, the challenge is to keep it still in the present, still interesting. <br /><br />I pull out new techniques as though I’m a parent trying to amuse a child on a camping trip on day five of rain. <br /><br />Like music, I try to make it familiar and personal, to strike a chord with this farming experience, so whoever is here contributing sweat equity and brilliance to the farm feels as though there’s some reward for the contribution that they’re making- a melody. <br /><br />In August, coming up with new things to teach the apprentices is tough, especially if they’ve been here for five months. So off we go to Geo’s farm to learn how he farms weed-free, or to Ray’s to butcher chickens, or to Kermit’s to cut and wrap a beef. We pick blackberries and blueberries and weed and weed and weed. We plant the crops that will mature in the fall, and we soak in the waning hours of sunlight, and in the chorus of the crickets and the cicadas: the signs of late summer and the need to fill our pantries chock-o-block full of provisions for the bare season to come: a symphony for sure, in full crescendo.<br /><br />Cucumber Salsa<br /><br />This recipe is decidedly vague because you need to insert your own amount of ingredients. I suggest tasting it after the inclusion of every ingredient, and adding more of something if you feel it’s not right. The proportions given here are about right. <br />1 part cukes<br />1 part green peppers<br />2 parts onions<br />1 or 2 hot peppers, depending upon your amount of substance P (i.e, how much heat you can take)<br />salt, pepper<br />1 part vinegar<br />a little olive oil<br />½ part chopped cilantro or lovage<br />3 cloves garlic to every cup of salsa<br />1 bunch of basil (about ½ cup)<br /> Mix everything together and chill for about 30 minutes before eating with chips, as a side to white fish, or a black bean burrito.fat rooster farmhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13454101442908709731noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4423350024112030232.post-9262302318822320832010-07-26T17:41:00.003-04:002010-07-26T18:11:09.527-04:00Farming Firsts<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiolpNOxuEKY8rxM4W1pd702d30lGTi0_KNx6_Gk-hN1ejFbG0oSWO2WgSm2mth34KLGeVqSPECjlpi3-wvjKwx-N_HinX7OFnenTqzuYG8YirdaM66SgXAa40jUn4AnXwMxS9rk60fYxs/s1600/finished+product+(1).JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 241px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiolpNOxuEKY8rxM4W1pd702d30lGTi0_KNx6_Gk-hN1ejFbG0oSWO2WgSm2mth34KLGeVqSPECjlpi3-wvjKwx-N_HinX7OFnenTqzuYG8YirdaM66SgXAa40jUn4AnXwMxS9rk60fYxs/s320/finished+product+(1).JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5498340585696058434" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPaiTX54fAycPDruquQBJntbhHkVVlUniJdEFD00gti_OtpsnAQK4jUbI-V7TFf0EjQB4snURBaFQjB1lIAn_CzK_dNvvbzWn_FwPYOE6YSsKDi2_Nr6abiGXUD-bd1k8OkNJQyYafKAI/s1600/turkeys+and+guineas+after+the+storm.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 241px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPaiTX54fAycPDruquQBJntbhHkVVlUniJdEFD00gti_OtpsnAQK4jUbI-V7TFf0EjQB4snURBaFQjB1lIAn_CzK_dNvvbzWn_FwPYOE6YSsKDi2_Nr6abiGXUD-bd1k8OkNJQyYafKAI/s320/turkeys+and+guineas+after+the+storm.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5498338270929703394" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1Xq50_lrtXfl2fESybkRUntWKICW8ByPLXz7RDDua1dZ1j3TMwlgYSZj3EzT3RK8ckqkZD9o1IzvJzITBU1UoWztp5Ootw1803-OJR0w0DWRIw2GPWxF6ZuXDrSe_hiZeLdjaTP0-MHI/s1600/finished+product.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 241px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1Xq50_lrtXfl2fESybkRUntWKICW8ByPLXz7RDDua1dZ1j3TMwlgYSZj3EzT3RK8ckqkZD9o1IzvJzITBU1UoWztp5Ootw1803-OJR0w0DWRIw2GPWxF6ZuXDrSe_hiZeLdjaTP0-MHI/s320/finished+product.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5498337551433237762" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaCEJn6y-DpQq2ckV-_jM1ZK09dxL3U1f0UchwERLK9BAXpolAWdIhxeJLH0Jqic0ADESbU-iXeIIIZwTpU53cJzTvguScjVYq3B3QOthIl10Mw491-SE7v8nJGxwt0aubeJCaJs2ARh0/s1600/east+view+of+the+deck.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 241px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaCEJn6y-DpQq2ckV-_jM1ZK09dxL3U1f0UchwERLK9BAXpolAWdIhxeJLH0Jqic0ADESbU-iXeIIIZwTpU53cJzTvguScjVYq3B3QOthIl10Mw491-SE7v8nJGxwt0aubeJCaJs2ARh0/s320/east+view+of+the+deck.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5498336524648007026" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6vl_ATXs2TPjrwhyWjNHIcQ_CadOL7x246HSHihhYtyHWbxUwiJSvxpKz1v5EeeHM3wgRMvSF1s8rlNkadPojtrFAO868T3FOD2hbt_W6sVkFov03QsSrSM1-ejV8WtgN6T8nVIZzItc/s1600/043.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 241px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6vl_ATXs2TPjrwhyWjNHIcQ_CadOL7x246HSHihhYtyHWbxUwiJSvxpKz1v5EeeHM3wgRMvSF1s8rlNkadPojtrFAO868T3FOD2hbt_W6sVkFov03QsSrSM1-ejV8WtgN6T8nVIZzItc/s320/043.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5498334610883249346" /></a><br />When you first start farming, it’s not only physically exhausting, it’s mentally exhausting. I think this may be because in our mind’s eye, we tend to think of farming as the cattle rancher, lazily gazing over rolling hills at his cattle atop a trusted mount, or as the vegetable grower, gathering handfuls of brilliantly colored carrots and beets, freshly plucked from the fertile soil. Or maybe we think of the shepherdess, tending the flock and watching the lambs gamboling across the lush pasture that is rich with clover and timothy. They’re rewarding visions, bountiful ones. No one ever paints pictures of the calves stranded in the woods that need to be gathered back into the herd (it’ll take hours, and by the time you’re done, the cows are in the wrong grazing area). The long, straight rows of vegetables don’t tell the tale of countless, back-breaking, mind-numbing hours of seeding, then thinning and watering and weeding before the glorious harvest can begin. And the threat of fly-strike, where maggots attack the sheep to eat them alive, or coyotes lurk to shed the blood of the prized ewe aren’t really part of the happy farming bubble floating magically above our heads when we decide to begin to farm. No one can ever prepare us for how hard, tedious, boring, frustrating and maddening it can be. The urge to just fall to pieces and just cash it in for a good desk job are sometimes hard to resist.<br />One of my favorite summarizations of solutions to the pitfalls that farming can conjure up came from a review written by a “Wal-Mart Associate” in response to the book, Harvest: a Year in the Life of an Organic Farm, by Nicola Smith and Geoff Hansen (2003). He said that the book was depressing and full of death and by god, if he had something killing his chickens, he’d’ve done something about it.<br /> Darnit, why didn’t I think of that? I could have just killed that mysterious thing doing in my hens, and then my cartons would be brimming full with eggs.<br />I guess if you’re one who chooses to dwell in your disasters rather than count your blessings, it may not be a venue you’d thrive in. I’m also pretty sure that getting rich is not the defacto option for this particular career choice.<br />But if it’s looking back over years of learning by following the advice of others in the community, by reading farming books, and by making mistakes that fulfills you, then farming is your baby.<br />The first piece of ground we plowed up to plant to vegetables looked white as snow. Not because it was winter, but because the former tenants had buried their plastic in the ground rather than dispose of it properly. It took us until this year not to plow up pieces of the plastic, or tires or cast-off shoes. Now, the garden, nicknamed the sunflower garden, is being transformed to our perennial beds, where Kyle’s strawberries, asparagus, black currants, horseradish, cranberries, cherries and random Ohio buckeye trees reside.<br />When I first strung electric fence for our sheep to graze, the pasture was tall with Canadian thistle, burdock, asters and goldenrod. These plants make good bee food, but aren’t much for sheep to eat. Constantly shifting them from one paddock to another all season long so that they grazed and fertilized has eventually transformed the soil into nitrogen-rich pasture that is now heavy with clover and timothy and other forbes. The lambs are strong and their meat is sweet and full of flavor from grazing and from staying with their mothers until they’re slaughtered.<br />Still, each year, there are pitfalls that I never imagined I’d encounter. Take the corn, for example. We usually don’t direct seed it because the crows eat it all up as soon as we stick the seed in the ground. But without a greenhouse this year, we were forced to plant it. And up it came. On Tuesday, I looked over 8 foot high stalks, laden with ears that are just coming ripe. On Wednesday, what I can only imagine was a tornado (but is referred to as a micro-bore or micro sheer, or some such other insurance lingo) flattened half the corn. Bam, just like that. I was so relieved that the guinea hens and turkeys hadn’t drowned in the 2.9 inches of rain in 58 minutes, that I hadn’t even thought to check the corn. After the storm, sitting on the new deck, the destruction couldn’t be hidden. But what’s even more amazing is that 5 days later, it has almost succeeded in standing itself up, BY ITSELF.<br />And then there’s this talk of a basil blight that has wiped out neighbor’s crops. Our basil is so strong and lush, that I find it hard to believe that it may succumb, like the tomatoes did last year. The tomatoes this year have been growing up and up and up, setting flowers, but not much fruit. One theory is that they aborted the fruit because of the intense heat we’ve been having. It certainly wasn’t because of too much nitrogen- our soil tests always come back as suggesting to put more nitrogen in the gardens.<br />I’ve been pickling like a mad woman, beets, beans and cukes. Everything is early. Never a dull moment, this farming thing. And if I think I can predict what’s around the next bend? Well that’s just plain foolish.fat rooster farmhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13454101442908709731noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4423350024112030232.post-19314957221875503752010-07-09T15:34:00.001-04:002010-07-09T15:38:50.055-04:00Sopa de Flor de Calabaza<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOKGdtHgS_UeS_s7TK-gB8uVtDOMnmk1VZWC6XD2UtqSwqNMOS-gJFa95fCvHO7xikaENqayvD7DrO60GYWYr6xuFXGwSBxbNWCsTorPOgjBjRKRAWAgOtBxY7-vBe4N8bjQemX_0WWJM/s1600/patty+pan.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 241px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOKGdtHgS_UeS_s7TK-gB8uVtDOMnmk1VZWC6XD2UtqSwqNMOS-gJFa95fCvHO7xikaENqayvD7DrO60GYWYr6xuFXGwSBxbNWCsTorPOgjBjRKRAWAgOtBxY7-vBe4N8bjQemX_0WWJM/s320/patty+pan.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5491993176480537186" /></a><br /><br />I started a blog entry about a month ago, and it’s disappeared into cyberspace. It was about farming and its vagaries and unpredictability. I guess I’m just not used to Windows 7, which is much easier to maneuver around in than Vista, but still, there’s a learning curve, and the entry is gone. That’ll teach me to go more than a month without posting…<br />We are diligently scouting the gorgeous tomatoes that are now producing a cherry tom here and there, but are loaded with lush, green foliage and scores of blossoms. Thank goodness for heat and humidity and no rain. On the other hand, I feel like a Georgia field hand sometimes. My friend in Alabama is reporting weather conditions that are mirroring our own, only he’s used to them, and we’re not.<br />We have the abundance of August already- onions, chard, spinach, bok choi, head lettuce, peppers, artichokes, summer squash, beans. Then, there’s the late spring hold outs that are still chugging along. Asparagus and rhubarb are still around, although we’re not picking the asparagus anymore. The peas have succumbed to the heat, as have the radishes and cilantro. The basil is crazy and smells of summer.<br />Every year I take advantage of the squash blossoms. They’re so delicate and delicious, like morel mushrooms are. I fry them and stuff them with goat cheese and use them as garnish on refried beans. The best thing to do with them, though, is to make a soup. I have adapted this recipe from my favorite Mexican cookbook by Diana Kennedy (The Art of Mexican Cooking ,2008). It takes a ton of blossoms, so unless you have a farmer who’s willing to let you pick your own straight from the field, it’s a costly soup. But a treat worth trying, at least once a summer. Use the male flowers, not the females, that way, you won’t waste the fruits.<br /><br />2 tbs butter<br />4 tbs finely chopped spring onions, greens and bulb<br />3 cloves fresh garlic, preferably hardneck<br />2 pounds fresh male squash, gourd or pumpkin blossoms<br />5 cups chicken broth (can substitute veggie, but it won’t taste as rich)<br />1 cup corn kernels<br />1 cup summer, zucchini or patty pan squash, diced<br />1 tsp epazote<br />1 cup heavy cream<br />Salt and pepper, to taste<br />Basil, shredded for garnish<br />Chile peppers, diced, for garnish<br /><br />Fry the onion and garlic in the butter without browning (about 3 minutes). Stir the flowers into the pan, then cover and cook over low heat for the next 5 minutes. Uncover the pan, and cook until the flowers are tender and the juice has evaporated- this may take time, depending on how fresh the flowers are (like 10 minutes).<br />Put all but ¼ cup of the flowers in a food processor and blend with 2/3 cup of the broth until smooth. Put this mixture in a saucepan, then add the rest of the flowers , broth and vegetables and cook until tender. Add the epazote, salt and pepper and cook for 5 minutes more. Remove from the heat, stir in the cream and garnish with the shredded basil and chile cubes. Let the soup cool slightly before serving.fat rooster farmhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13454101442908709731noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4423350024112030232.post-11103379902923082672010-06-02T02:42:00.004-04:002010-06-02T02:48:03.694-04:00Snowflakes<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNe_Tnm9ntGUPbyhupPqBBW_g5c4dshrRo2eVVx80zHjxoeADIoAwfCL-AvuTRBMDlNSM_IlNMe9J5QQyMMZhhlV6stm3e9FRcjknVwaOvrQmVTHJOS-sDPxRcy622kk9W_8-Bq022LXM/s1600/DSCF6911.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNe_Tnm9ntGUPbyhupPqBBW_g5c4dshrRo2eVVx80zHjxoeADIoAwfCL-AvuTRBMDlNSM_IlNMe9J5QQyMMZhhlV6stm3e9FRcjknVwaOvrQmVTHJOS-sDPxRcy622kk9W_8-Bq022LXM/s320/DSCF6911.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5478063947853590338" /></a><br />April is our month to vacation, it seems. The lambs have been born, and the crops are not massively out of control. There’s still the greenhouses to water, the animals to care for, and the threat of cold nights that require the woodstove to keep burning, but it’s not May and June planting chaos, or July haying, or August harvest. So for the third year in a row, it’s off the farm for four days to stay on the beach.<br /><br />This year, we had the great fortune to stay in a little cabin on the Cape owned by a friend of Kyle’s named Dave. They used to work together, back when Kyle was the biologist for the Cape Cod National Seashore; Dave’s in charge of everything that has to do with fire in the Park. He also coordinates the forest fire fighters for the Northeast.<br /><br />Anyway, Sarit agreed to take care of the farm, solo, after being here for only a month, and saying things like “how do you tell the difference between a rooster and a hen,” and “isn’t it a little cruel to roast the lambs whole on a spit, I mean, don’t they feel it?”<br /><br />Needless to say, she’s like a sponge, learning everything from the difference in comb size between hens and roosters to the fact that the animals are actually dead before they’re skewered and roasted on the fire. She’s already soloed at the farmer’s market, watched her bottle lamb be sold for meat and battled the quack grass in the hoophouse. She’s been stung by an orange-butted bumblebee and slogged through wet snow to harvest wild leeks. She’s a transplanting mad woman, and a mean winter squash bread maker. She’s even making friends with the cats, despite never ever having had a pet. <br /><br />That everything is new to her and an adventure kind of came home to me on our vacation. It occurred to me, as Kyle, Bradford and I went on six mile hikes into the marsh, or 4 -mile walks along the Atlantic in search of whales, or 13- mile bike rides, that in the two and a half years that I lived on Cape Cod, I did nothing except drive to and from work. I hated the crowds, the cars, the tourists. So I’d go to the remote seabird colony off Chatham and do biology, and then it was back to the house in Wellfleet, in our unheated barn with no plumbing. I didn’t even know that just behind our house was a fabulous beach with gigantic cliffs and far-reaching sand dunes. I mean, when your job is walking miles of beach coast a day, who wants to spend your day off beachcombing?<br /><br />This time, I watched the piping plovers dig their scrapes and court. I didn’t have to dig holes and post signs and string rope to keep the beachgoers out of their habitat. I didn’t have to find every pair and count their eggs and keep track of their chicks. I just watched them in the warm April sunlight, while Bradford and Kyle looked for rare birds and whales, and threw the Frisbee on the beach. <br /><br />Back home, a record-breaking snowstorm greeted us. I saw the silver silhouette of a common snipe flying crazily into the snowflakes, and two hermit thrushes, burnt-red against the snow-white branches in the forest. We’ve postponed planting the onions until the weekend, when it’s forecasted to be in the 80s.<br /><br />Sarit says that when she looks at snowflakes she believes that there is indeed a god. I know what she means. I look at Billy, the peacock, with his ridiculous show of feathers and can’t wrap my mind around the thought that this just happened randomly or for the sake of evolution- I mean why does it have to be so incredibly complex, when a simpler thing could just as easily perpetuate itself into the future? If evolution was the only answer, shouldn’t we all be amoebas?<br /><br />Anyway, the vacation, and Sarit’s enthusiasm are good reminders for me to keep the joy in the job and not forget about the adventure and the wonder of every day, like a snowstorm in April, or a deserted beach where hundreds of people will gather soon.fat rooster farmhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13454101442908709731noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4423350024112030232.post-79773354030922111392010-04-13T21:43:00.004-04:002010-04-13T21:54:57.068-04:00Finding Truths- the Beautiful and the Cruel<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHv-wNuDJka7UEy7n1zGNETHfJCeHNeLgZ34kFyxnalqPKYxT-7T60CKkKu83y-Y5-7o0TQPySZgWQNA5pCsxhs6PCVz8aTEBMT0E9RVRCB-zbPg3X58icupfQIjTJ0lfU20AbcziKPbc/s1600/2007_0621Image0023.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 241px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHv-wNuDJka7UEy7n1zGNETHfJCeHNeLgZ34kFyxnalqPKYxT-7T60CKkKu83y-Y5-7o0TQPySZgWQNA5pCsxhs6PCVz8aTEBMT0E9RVRCB-zbPg3X58icupfQIjTJ0lfU20AbcziKPbc/s320/2007_0621Image0023.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5459805739413052066" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4wOBMPoeLNqAsoEiajyCEvqgI07LsmsN5wgJDJ4AzVM0lyllwtUwi9drcrE06ACG3Zbgfzl7NR398NPujRqJySUdcgZsuxZ7GPUyPubUQ5iIIErcgzShV2C78Sln2r6HzH8m4iWT-le0/s1600/2008_1212Image0001.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4wOBMPoeLNqAsoEiajyCEvqgI07LsmsN5wgJDJ4AzVM0lyllwtUwi9drcrE06ACG3Zbgfzl7NR398NPujRqJySUdcgZsuxZ7GPUyPubUQ5iIIErcgzShV2C78Sln2r6HzH8m4iWT-le0/s320/2008_1212Image0001.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5459805200340798466" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjM3Vr1kmJYKYT4rnXJdS0-mCXWknT3WJa9hoCsvpcM5SLUihqOE7JkQ61C82oe8Rt5IT4fYdfUzVCLu7VAzudK-I0Kx_0nYvDv4tvAQy-Hnlx4bRHS5K27AexF__KxxbhvY4nZ41Q1nvU/s1600/2007_0621Image0017.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 241px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjM3Vr1kmJYKYT4rnXJdS0-mCXWknT3WJa9hoCsvpcM5SLUihqOE7JkQ61C82oe8Rt5IT4fYdfUzVCLu7VAzudK-I0Kx_0nYvDv4tvAQy-Hnlx4bRHS5K27AexF__KxxbhvY4nZ41Q1nvU/s320/2007_0621Image0017.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5459804824788225986" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkh3Rkm-HQ-pgBdyGIJq2VuHAV4p8PvB-ZyzeOMSBUKFn13qQmEQR7mCrQV_mNcy-EyKwadLEo0ckgqDD2kk3eVAw0o9dBChmosKgzA3UWwcLPSUPC6A1K5j4gDjd_ne4mazwCobyJM9I/s1600/DSCF4160.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 241px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkh3Rkm-HQ-pgBdyGIJq2VuHAV4p8PvB-ZyzeOMSBUKFn13qQmEQR7mCrQV_mNcy-EyKwadLEo0ckgqDD2kk3eVAw0o9dBChmosKgzA3UWwcLPSUPC6A1K5j4gDjd_ne4mazwCobyJM9I/s320/DSCF4160.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5459804233694816722" /></a><br /><br /><br />“This morning I went next door to talk with the neighbor's yard man, Ben. Ben is a good man, a bit weak when it comes to beer; but a kind man that smiles more than anything. In the past, he would do odd jobs for my parents when he wasn't working for our neighbors. I asked him if he would be interested in driving out to our family land to take a tiller (b/c the tiller wouldn't fit in any vehicle we own) tomorrow morning early. I would pay him for his time and gas. Then Mr. C., our neighbor, came around from his garage and became the old angry white man. I was appalled at how he talked about Ben and to him. He said that he didn't think that Ben would be done with his work there at his place. I said well, what ever makes sense but if Ben wanted to drive out he could be back relatively early to finish his committed job there. I left to go back to our house and while I was picking up some lettuce I had planted in some raised beds, I over heard Mr. C. verbally abusing Ben. He said that "He" told Ben what to do and not the other way around. It was awful - I wanted to walk back down there and knock the shit out of the old man. But what made me the saddest was that Ben just took it...saying "Yes, Sir, Yes, Sir" Damn it. Even writing it right now makes me sick.’<br /><br />Ah, the varying characteristics of southern culture that highlight the underpinnings of coming home.”<br /><br />Today was my birthday. Kyle and Bradford wrapped special gifts for me; my parents called and nearly gave me a coronary ( I had forgotten that it was my birthday, and the only other people that call that early are the staff at the post office, telling me that chicks have arrived for my pick-up, and I didn’t remember ordering any chicks). I logged on and found 40 Facebook messages wishing me a happy day- so special, and thank you everyone for thinking of me. Mostly, I had a great time today, planting with Sarit in the greenhouse that our neighbors have loaned us space in to start our field plants. <br /><br />I cooked fish and chips tonight, much to Sarit’s horror, not because she doesn’t love fish and chips, but because it was foreign to her that, besides reading cookbooks when I’m not working, my ideal birthday is to cook dinner for loved ones.<br /><br />I am a little worried about how cold it is right now, and about our tender seedlings and the lambs outside, but I think all will be fine.<br /><br />Bradford passed hunter safety, so he’s ready for turkey youth day in two weeks. He claims he’s going to get me two turkeys and a deer. <br /><br />The opening quote is from a dear friend, one of our first “apprentices” on the farm. He shows up occasionally with his sleeping bag, and in all weather, and usually insists upon sleeping outdoors. <br /><br />Prejudices are hard, especially when they’re home-based. I feel like it’s important to stick up for our more liberal ideas, though, even if they’re not popular, even while they’re not the status quo. I’m happy for my friend for realizing that he’s different, and ugly truth or not, this is where his home is, and he, I’m sure, will make a difference in the end.<br /><br />The truth is, before this recession, people by and large thought that I was crazy for taking up farming. They reasoned that it was something that their parents had done out of necessity, to feed themselves, to keep them out of poverty. My colleagues considered it a waste of time that I had completed my Master’s degree in Biology, when, in the end, I turned to farming.<br /><br />The reality is that we have not felt the recession on the farm. We are still growing food, still teaching people how to fend for themselves, still able to keep what we have and build upon it. True, we’re not rich. Our idea of vacation is four days on Cape Cod, not three weeks in the Bahamas. I’m not saying that three weeks in the Bahamas would be a bad thing- just not anything we’ve ever considered feasible. What I am saying is that it’s still perfectly possible for us to go together to Cape Cod, when for many, this is, and may never have been, an option.<br /><br />I watched the Master’s golf tournament the other day. Not because I’m into golf, but because I’m into history. I wanted to see if it really meant nothing to Tiger Woods, to shatter his whole life and the lives of people around him. Could he really pull it off? He didn’t. He couldn’t. Kharma is pretty powerful that way.<br /><br />So to my friend in the South, who is appalled by the behavior of his neighbors, but willing to fight for what he thinks is right, I thank him for this birthday missive. I’m 47, so it’s no longer a given to conclude that I’m middle-aged. But he’s still capable of claiming this status of being angry with what is considered acceptable. I’m happy that he’s willing to stand out and say that prejudices are what they are, that prejudices are alive and well, and we will encounter them wherever we are, and we should not be fearful to speak out against them.fat rooster farmhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13454101442908709731noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4423350024112030232.post-5166097983815415622010-04-10T22:53:00.005-04:002010-04-10T23:04:34.146-04:00Tendril<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCkpFSZwht3rPxLg3IE0KNDkJ2_cF_Qbvc1kJ5N66h1lKGdFP-cmBdMz3Ggm_IiHzGSWFDdgXc3PkC-vcoocvUyPOKQCuRVDRWXRZyrQuGgNBeCgAByLQqdjBCskebuqZb1jyWmj_APBo/s1600/spring+kale+2010.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 241px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCkpFSZwht3rPxLg3IE0KNDkJ2_cF_Qbvc1kJ5N66h1lKGdFP-cmBdMz3Ggm_IiHzGSWFDdgXc3PkC-vcoocvUyPOKQCuRVDRWXRZyrQuGgNBeCgAByLQqdjBCskebuqZb1jyWmj_APBo/s320/spring+kale+2010.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5458710088442080002" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAagq7LNkHYq2e3Vem7qCXxaYIm4VlUsN2L6r1KUyGpNtZ3Dawn0U5lZMV5zMGCiPwy0Ud2LWxW05khthTNw5HQEucGYnM_oS2P7IBG-dQ7H_poMl_NOaxyvxiJ1ZrYN8mMBNuh1JfRWA/s1600/DSCF6759.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 241px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAagq7LNkHYq2e3Vem7qCXxaYIm4VlUsN2L6r1KUyGpNtZ3Dawn0U5lZMV5zMGCiPwy0Ud2LWxW05khthTNw5HQEucGYnM_oS2P7IBG-dQ7H_poMl_NOaxyvxiJ1ZrYN8mMBNuh1JfRWA/s320/DSCF6759.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5458709602566832322" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiM2pscXXkW9-FTKiQTnRYf1miVjEgfjXjvGTcZaYcxz5upzkwTaQEo6EToT-YbY7xskTVy0Q9xOhRt_7ujDEbqRIO1gNlmsuoT92qEkyVGwEIfrdpKb_nKSbthCuGD_te_ditw57NCyo8/s1600/thinning+radishes.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 241px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiM2pscXXkW9-FTKiQTnRYf1miVjEgfjXjvGTcZaYcxz5upzkwTaQEo6EToT-YbY7xskTVy0Q9xOhRt_7ujDEbqRIO1gNlmsuoT92qEkyVGwEIfrdpKb_nKSbthCuGD_te_ditw57NCyo8/s320/thinning+radishes.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5458708919672692690" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcv5wSwFFzGel4L8espmfdxJpwQkCszjYo3tguWEbpsFfJ_8dAdpyOvZtQGJPlw0pK3ocnJ4kuiHtRdshzJt0EvL8J0Kb4bf0dX1-Kx5TRWw8b-2TtlVfZSpHxkqM2YBk7_oaG1iVtLJo/s1600/Peas+(2).JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 241px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcv5wSwFFzGel4L8espmfdxJpwQkCszjYo3tguWEbpsFfJ_8dAdpyOvZtQGJPlw0pK3ocnJ4kuiHtRdshzJt0EvL8J0Kb4bf0dX1-Kx5TRWw8b-2TtlVfZSpHxkqM2YBk7_oaG1iVtLJo/s320/Peas+(2).JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5458708427520588226" /></a><br /><br /><br />Definition: 1) Thin plant part attached to support: a modified stem, leaf, or other part of a climbing plant, usually in the form of a thread that coils around and attaches the plant to supporting objects; 2) delicate twist or coil: a thin, wispy, curling, winding piece of something, especially of hair.<br /><br />“One of the most striking characteristics of each ‘depression period’ is the tacit acknowledgement of city dwellers that ‘the farm is the safest place to live;’ for though there is each year a migration from the country to the city and a counter movement to the suburbs and a less pronounced one to more agricultural environment, the movement becomes an exodus when business takes a slump and employees are thrown out of work” – M. G. Kains in Five Acres and Independence<br /><br />Every year I plant seeds, slips and tubers in the soil. Every year I revel in the discovery that they grow into plants. They’re different every year, these plants. Sometimes it’s sweet potatoes or okra or artichokes or Egyptian walking onions. But each season, the seeds are planted, and the wonder and mystic that they will ultimately produce food gives way to the reality that they finally do.<br /><br />The hoop houses are chockablock full of lettuce, radishes, peas, beans, arugula, mesclun mix and head lettuce, kale, mizuna and spinach. A veritable garden of Eden, twisting and coiling and erupting in the warm soil of this freakish April. The days ahead seem to be more fitting of the season though; people are tired of me saying that it always snows on my birthday as we go into a series of 30 degree nights.<br /><br />In the fields, the kale that survived the winter is yielding bushel after bushel of beautiful foliage. The spinach and bunching onions are giving us early delights; a sign to indicate what will soon come, when the milder nights and warm days wake up the farm and send it headlong into planting madness and then harvesting chaos. <br /><br />I picked two bushels of kale and some nettles today while Sarit and Anna weeded the Hoop House East. It was a cold, long day for us, but it ended with satisfaction, having prepared for the upcoming farmer’s market, as well as rounding up all of the sheep to sequester them inside the warm, dry barn for the next few days. The sheep and the new lambs can handle the cold when it’s sunny out, but cold and damp are miserable and even deadly, and that’s what’s apparently ahead ( it is April in Vermont, after all).<br /><br />Most years, we don’t have apprentices until the end of May, which usually coincides with school ending. This year has been different, with some of the apprentices from last year returning to help lamb (Greg, Shannon and Tali), and then Sarit starting in the middle of March (she didn’t want to miss anything) and Anna in the end of March. <br /><br />Sarit, especially has seen the farm come to life by helping to anchor bits and pieces of it together: she helped me sort out all of the receipts from 2009 to complete the taxes; she helped shovel out the sheep pen with its winter’s full of manure. She stacked the wood from the tree Kyle cut down over the winter, and helped him inspect the honey bee hives that have survived; all not glamorous jobs, but necessary ones that make a whole out of this endeavor.<br /><br />Yesterday, she and Anna made winter squash bread from the frozen squash that Tali and Janet harvested and froze last fall. She couldn’t find the nutmeg. That’s because I don’t have ground nutmeg; I actually have the brown seeds and a miniature grater to grind the nutmeg fresh. “Shut up! That’s not nutmeg! Why didn’t I know this was nutmeg?” I ask her if she knows that cinnamon is actually bark from a tree. “Noooo way!” How about the fact that coriander is the seeds from the cilantro plant. “Stop it!”<br /><br />Kyle plowed a big chunk of the Cloverfield North garden today; the soil is already dry enough to work- about 8 days earlier than last year and 12 days earlier than 2008. He taught me how to move a round bale with the tractor to the paddock to feed the sheep. We have a new tractor-driven rototiller, so we won’t spend so much time using the ground driven, hand operated one. Kyle picked up a day at the park in Woodstock where he works as the ecologist; Bradford needs braces, and we don’t like tons of debt. I actually am working more on the farm as the result of not working at the animal hospital anymore, so I am trying to learn how to do these mechanized jobs that aren’t as appealing to me but are crucial to the farm’s existence.<br /><br />The root cellar is completed, and the garden shed Kyle built that sits on top of the root cellar’s cement roof is done except for the windows. It looks fantastic. Now for that shop remodeling…<br /><br />In all, the farm is held together by a zillion little threads, linking the mundane and the magical together to create a sense of security that I’ve only felt when I’ve worked on the land. It’s empowering at the same time that it is intimidating and daunting. Unpredictable, surprising, twisting and changing. A mish-mash of tendrils, all working to support living on the farm.fat rooster farmhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13454101442908709731noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4423350024112030232.post-21144655474970987982010-03-25T15:18:00.003-04:002010-03-25T15:27:30.593-04:00Change is Bad<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiK2zKt-qtZnnGeK9Nso9DEU_RBcwJIxrb8CTULIZrj8_aZtaxa4BIH0JNY_-8MdFdV4YcrIsU_0DfVG0cfM0XGarEbPPZUNjPTbXmDciD02cEumjvvlhDVfOFwogQpYS43jqoSmYdPFVM/s1600/DSCF6743.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 241px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiK2zKt-qtZnnGeK9Nso9DEU_RBcwJIxrb8CTULIZrj8_aZtaxa4BIH0JNY_-8MdFdV4YcrIsU_0DfVG0cfM0XGarEbPPZUNjPTbXmDciD02cEumjvvlhDVfOFwogQpYS43jqoSmYdPFVM/s320/DSCF6743.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5452655067935649026" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoJ-kEit3Ihg5zcHeZwof92zXMusEm5uC5vNsOR6vwdgKkfq5O0E5BpbbPUgCw0vj8xFeVeiOm05snbjOoxiNbqlpIi3Z-uRzvQVc57u2ybq4zsUjfSc5T_s9R8-s1Bc5z-0lUAnrRaDU/s1600/spring+song.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 241px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoJ-kEit3Ihg5zcHeZwof92zXMusEm5uC5vNsOR6vwdgKkfq5O0E5BpbbPUgCw0vj8xFeVeiOm05snbjOoxiNbqlpIi3Z-uRzvQVc57u2ybq4zsUjfSc5T_s9R8-s1Bc5z-0lUAnrRaDU/s320/spring+song.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5452654327866102434" /></a><br /><br /><br />This is one of my favorite Woody Allen quotes, from a movie he made back when he was America’s darling, before he cheated on Mia Farrow with her daughter. He used the phrase to argue that where he was, the role he was in, the rut he was in, was better, more comfortable, than leaping into something unknown, something scary and challenging.<br /><br />I say this all the time, especially to the new apprentices, when they walk onto this farm and there is nothing familiar to them. It’s all new, all change, all stressful and weeding through personalities, both human and non-human animal alike, adjusting to routines, to house rules, to what the other humans living at the farm are used to.<br /><br />Shannon came up for two weeks and helped lamb. She overlapped with Sarit, who is new, and she filled her in. <br /><br />I told her about all of the rules, Shannon said. Sarit’s eyes were big. No shoes in the house, nothing but butts in the bench that Kyle built (don’t pile books, backpacks, sleeping cats, etc here), hang the clothes on the line with pins, don’t leave dishes in the sink, wipe up the floor in the shower, clean the cast iron cooking utensils without water when Kyle is around, with soap and water when Jenn is around, put the lids on the Tupperware, don’t leave the tools in the field.<br /><br />Sarit told the rules to Anna, who arrived yesterday. She asked to arrange the food in the pantry. I told her that she could re-arrange the milkhouse. Really, I was thinking that I couldn’t handle the change, but honestly, the pantry is a mess.<br /><br />These two haven’t had any farm experience, and yet, after just a few days, they’re planting the farm’s crops, feeding the animals, helping me do the taxes. They’re awesome.<br /><br />Did the cows get fed three bales of hay? This is a rhetorical question that I am asking, because I can tell they have. Yes, they say. Well, I respond, they should only get two. Sarit gathers the hay up and feeds some to Michael the horse.<br /><br />Do you hear the sound that the chicks are making right now? That means they’re out of food and water. Sarit, Anna and Bradford give the chicks food and water. The chicks are happy.<br /><br />So I intend these questions to be teaching type questions, not intimidating or self-deprecating, but I know that Change is also Scary. It means that there’s this person, who is usually clad in the finest velour and other cast offs garnered from the local thrift store, who has an air of authority about her that is sometimes offsetting, that seems, but doesn’t really mean to, question personal ability.<br /><br />In March, the changes of season are so subtle that I can track them. The first turkey vultures are back. The red-winged blackbirds and common grackles return. The day lilies are creeping out of the ground, and the garlic and wild leeks are growing. The robins are crazily flying and setting up territories, the potatoes in the root cellar are developing eyes (which will later turn into roots when they’ve been planted) and the garlic and onions that have been stored are sprouting. There are hens setting on eggs to hatch them out, and the peacock is displaying his glorious feathers. Change happens every single day in March and April and May. <br /><br />It happens every month, every week, every day, incrementally more subtle, but change, just the same.<br /><br />I no longer work for the Country Animal Hospital, after eleven years there. A shock and a serious source of panic for me at first. I honestly never thought that I would leave there. It was a comfortable place to work and I loved the people. I think that I was a little too vocal about recent changes, and the economy has affected this establishment, as it has many, so there was a need to consolidate. I have had an amazing outpouring of support from the community, and I thank everyone. I believe that things are as they should be, though. The animal hospital needs to stay in business, and I was the most expendable. <br /><br />I just finished up the Joy of Keeping a Root Cellar, to be published by the same company as the Joy of Keeping Chickens. I’m also substitute teaching and working with a friend landscaping. And I have way more time to farm.<br /><br />So change isn’t bad- it’s change. And here is spring, at our heels, turning these browned fields into green-gold, bringing bird song, rebirth and warm sun.<br /><br />Happy Spring.fat rooster farmhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13454101442908709731noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4423350024112030232.post-12353689050127814862010-01-28T17:42:00.008-05:002010-02-23T10:57:58.890-05:00Gorilla Gardeners<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQXJT2BhrJ0MmtwsAQ50maGnF915fCCCK_vQ9qEcJvyQQCEUHkDo9kFmho6F9LzAVJpqGs0yLZjzn6jK9KrrWkzN1T7ncGlAHkFil2rdGfGSMQintS1YihnsBxTGTkG4-nj1Ze98_rvjQ/s1600-h/DSCF6543.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 241px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQXJT2BhrJ0MmtwsAQ50maGnF915fCCCK_vQ9qEcJvyQQCEUHkDo9kFmho6F9LzAVJpqGs0yLZjzn6jK9KrrWkzN1T7ncGlAHkFil2rdGfGSMQintS1YihnsBxTGTkG4-nj1Ze98_rvjQ/s320/DSCF6543.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5431928241823805778" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6rHa_nBbuApzEcoiZ4TzP_837o0x2lMP0Ro4aKP2HtfyqX4B39s7XaO68KgjYqUMi1wVadekOWuUNBn8yvVVjYnW5SkRPrkShDoEgC5JQczg491HUwrXG5UnkWolSBfVqWikE5V0F2Ao/s1600-h/DSCF6578.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 241px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6rHa_nBbuApzEcoiZ4TzP_837o0x2lMP0Ro4aKP2HtfyqX4B39s7XaO68KgjYqUMi1wVadekOWuUNBn8yvVVjYnW5SkRPrkShDoEgC5JQczg491HUwrXG5UnkWolSBfVqWikE5V0F2Ao/s320/DSCF6578.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5431927594529965922" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPXW7Erge9DaL6Qy1dPA_NGiu82huYGqwFOGhngOqNllBcompMNCCZqunFmcXIYGvQ7DtpqDvOCGYyzo6pyADXDVLp9qrwaBSEFJQh4RBz_f0BtbqyE1QULZ67MC5gREWmq02aivZyouo/s1600-h/DSCF6538.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 241px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPXW7Erge9DaL6Qy1dPA_NGiu82huYGqwFOGhngOqNllBcompMNCCZqunFmcXIYGvQ7DtpqDvOCGYyzo6pyADXDVLp9qrwaBSEFJQh4RBz_f0BtbqyE1QULZ67MC5gREWmq02aivZyouo/s320/DSCF6538.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5431926807339791154" /></a><br />I wanna call Dad, he says to me in a high pitch, after I turn on the tiny solar light, in the corner, near the east window, right where it’s been for the past 20 years. He and Whitney are waiting at the front door until I turn it on. He’s not afraid, he’s full of wonder. He’s amazed, just what I wanted.<br /><br />At first he protested when I said that I was yanking him from school and going Downeast to Maine, to visit my dear friends Donna, Gerri and Pete. This is the place that I learned how to dig my own well, to butcher a deer, to tan a hide, to can food, to cure garlic for seed, to smoke meat. It’s where I learned how to eat a partridge just killed by a car, how to crack a lobster with just your hands, how to say goodbye to a friend dying of melanoma cancer, just a year and nine months after meeting him. It was a place that was grounding.<br /><br />Right now, my ten year-old, who just 18 hours ago was in tears at the thought of not having wi-fi for three days, is dragging out skins of cured skunks and Australian possums. Donna’s house is phantasmal. What’s this one, Mom? I think it’s a mink. For those of you who don’t know, Whitney was an apprentice here in 2008, and is probably my closest friend. She’s amazing in her own right, but that’s another blog…<br /><br />Kyle likes to describe Donna as ornery. She’s done everything, seen everything, and she truly could do anything else. She’s buried a husband and her best friend, she knows how to shear sheep, rake blueberries, preserve any food you can think of, make the best homemade wine you could drink, tan any animal’s hide, make friends with Feds and foes, she’s truly an idol. Right now, she’s working on a collaboration with University of Maine Press to catalog all of the plants on Acadia National Park.<br /><br />The first night we arrived there, Gerri and Donna had gone to dinner at Oscar’s, a local lobsterman and friend, where I later bought 21 pounds of lobster to freeze at $4 a pound. That they’re gone, and we’re alone in the house gives me just enough time to show Whit and Bradford around. I show them my favorite things: the hand-dug root cellar, right down to granite; the reading lamp made out of sheep’s legs, the sepia picture of Bradford Kausen, whom our son is named after, looking contentedly out onto the water. Whit and my Bradford are rewardingly awed and amazed. This house has been completely constructed by this woman, her husband and her friend’s hands. She is not dependant on anything more than community, friendship and loyalty. <br /><br />Mom, I wanna come back here with Dad to clean up the Little House. It’s where I lived for nearly two years, helping Brad die, helping Donna, learn to live, with Pete and Gerri and a slew of others. My son gets it. The magic of this place, the necessity of self reliance and close community. What a tonic in this bleak, dormant season of resting.fat rooster farmhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13454101442908709731noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4423350024112030232.post-5383993909971443862010-01-21T09:33:00.003-05:002010-01-21T09:40:27.089-05:00The Down Time<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-x7fkGLZUqBMkwDaDmr3ItGK_D5XCJAH3k9E8ID9LhkqW7xLtBPXR_eYRNKg1PbHrtKwfbpDi46yzFhrmj78PF9ISOV9gRy8mC6XTRdI9yOOKzVKYg7lvOKUGf85e3rTpyhwhETXR85E/s1600-h/DSCF6482.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-x7fkGLZUqBMkwDaDmr3ItGK_D5XCJAH3k9E8ID9LhkqW7xLtBPXR_eYRNKg1PbHrtKwfbpDi46yzFhrmj78PF9ISOV9gRy8mC6XTRdI9yOOKzVKYg7lvOKUGf85e3rTpyhwhETXR85E/s320/DSCF6482.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5429202846702397666" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCX6-WnKSMRsnUPyVQWn3XXzvDrykixEX6VxqB-kV540AuDKrKrdkIo1OVqAhhbBt6uaPRm_hLGmjsZ4XYZ6SpiD1_glCpXSs_Hf7uNLzlamTNa4y64d_KuRvPo6CcZ54Z_Tr4FjgMJ_o/s1600-h/DSCF6522.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 241px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCX6-WnKSMRsnUPyVQWn3XXzvDrykixEX6VxqB-kV540AuDKrKrdkIo1OVqAhhbBt6uaPRm_hLGmjsZ4XYZ6SpiD1_glCpXSs_Hf7uNLzlamTNa4y64d_KuRvPo6CcZ54Z_Tr4FjgMJ_o/s320/DSCF6522.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5429202588566367458" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKM_Km59MqkcUYRsX5WE9YP5tdhJn4tbxG9ZwEs3L4qi-8ZqQp0a6AC8XQ814sVMx6CNmVZNiUidHlFsR1XKcxWhM1kRv5_RomAMXbF4ctmFwLWz_zkIFy-4HFttCoQU79R2-mqcYTfKA/s1600-h/DSCF6515.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 241px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKM_Km59MqkcUYRsX5WE9YP5tdhJn4tbxG9ZwEs3L4qi-8ZqQp0a6AC8XQ814sVMx6CNmVZNiUidHlFsR1XKcxWhM1kRv5_RomAMXbF4ctmFwLWz_zkIFy-4HFttCoQU79R2-mqcYTfKA/s320/DSCF6515.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5429202019881472626" /></a><br />I joke about the fact that from December to March is supposed to be what we call the “down time”. Certainly, it’s not in May, with the frenzy of plowing and preparing and planting, consumed with getting fences up and animals on permanent pasture for the next six months. It’s not in August, when the crops are ready to harvest, and so much needs to be dried, canned, and frozen in order to savor summer’s bounty during the dormant months of winter. <br /><br />I actually use an alarm clock to wake up in the morning, no bird song or bright light to tell me it’s time to rise and do the chores that never go away: cows, sheep, pigs and chickens all need to be fed, even in the winter.<br /><br />We’re interviewing potential apprentices almost daily during this time. The state of the battered economy seems to have tipped in our favor somehow; just four years ago, there was only one applicant worthy of consideration. Last year and this, there are hordes of qualified people, looking to learn how to be self-sufficient. From entire families to newly graduated from high school, it’s a tonic to see how much enthusiasm there is out there for wanting to learn how to do it by oneself.<br /><br />I was explaining just last night to Sarit, one of the people visiting to see whether Fat Rooster would be a good match for her to learn some farming skills, that it is a very unpredictable profession, this farming. I like to have a list of tasks everyday, neatly ordered, from most important to least. But invariably, the list will go out the window. Take this morning, for example. <br /><br />My plan was to head to Central Supplies and buy sawdust for the chicken coop. A writer from Edible Green Mountains, a magazine about sustainable agricultural practices throughout the northeast (there is an Edible series for most regions in the US), is supposed to come and visit the farm and its chickens. I wanted to spruce up the place because honestly, the January thaw has just begun, and the accumulated manure in the coop of the past three months is a bit, well realistic. On Monday, though, it’s supposed to be in the 40’s, so I’ll get to shovel it out when it has thawed. Then, I have this book with a looming deadline, and I really need to sit down at the computer to finish that up.<br /><br />At chores, I noticed, in horror, that one of the ewe lambs that I kept as a replacement ewe, has permanent nerve damage to her left shoulder. She got it caught in one of the grates in the barn, crossing to the pen where they spend the night. Her useless leg is dragging now, with no hope of repair. So I’ve called the butcher, and he’s on his way to slaughter her so her meat can be used and her skin can be tanned. At first, I thought it was Maple, the lamb who has been promised to Shannon, who apprenticed here last year. Even though I knew how impractical the thoughts were, when I thought that the lamb was Maple, I was devising methods of casting the leg in my head. It’s not her, and for that I am grateful.<br /><br />After getting off the phone with the butcher, the phone rang again. A little voice asked, who’s this? It’s me, Mom, I say. What’s up? Visions of swine flu creep into my head. He hasn’t been vaccinated, because I think he already had the flu last year before it was a media staple, when I waited up with the bacons, and his temperature raged for four days, hovering at 106. Mom, he says, did you know that today was a half day at school? No, baby, I didn’t. There goes the trip to the farm store for shavings.<br /><br />So I guess I’ll punt the day, and write this blog, and get the lamb butchered and work on the book. And play a game of cards with my son and make kale and sausage soup.<br /><br />Soon, the chickadees and starlings will begin singing their songs of spring. The woodpeckers will drum out their secret knocks to keep potential rivals for females away. The sun will warm the sugar maples and the sap will run. For now, there’s skiing and sledding and snow. And chickens in the house, who can’t survive in the barn. Dad, Brad asks. When are the chickens going back in the barn? When we plant the onions, Dad replies. Interesting, I think. Since this year, we’ll be starting the onions from plants in April, not seeds in February.fat rooster farmhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13454101442908709731noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4423350024112030232.post-27972672168958990282009-12-14T12:42:00.002-05:002009-12-14T12:52:21.967-05:00Yeah, Right<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKjjHQdfpMfm1nHUYfxL_FA6CGbm_lEvh04dlSsQI3vBt3qhYhVMGW2w-v642cIV5u8gLUwFzCKYHxzf8rjNnaplkY8ELEsnLY0LoUWnYtekdoaFqji5VlkEubmjneTWclziQu7ReCug8/s1600-h/blueberry+sourdough+muffins.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 241px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKjjHQdfpMfm1nHUYfxL_FA6CGbm_lEvh04dlSsQI3vBt3qhYhVMGW2w-v642cIV5u8gLUwFzCKYHxzf8rjNnaplkY8ELEsnLY0LoUWnYtekdoaFqji5VlkEubmjneTWclziQu7ReCug8/s320/blueberry+sourdough+muffins.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5415150530801935906" /></a><br />Yeah right, is my son’s new saying. He’s going to be ten years old in less than two months, and he knows that this is a big birthday celebration for most ten year-olds. I’m pretty much a stick in the mud when it comes to traditional celebrations like this, and I only acquiesce to a birthday celebration because he so loves parties, and I do too. He’s been lobbying the details for two weeks now, fully two months before the big event. He’s outlined plans, favors, games and the menu. So today, we sat down and talked about particulars.<br /><br />Five kids<br /><br />Whaat? Are you crazy? Only five?<br /><br />Yep, five. Name them.<br /><br />I tap my pencil, while he digests the words, gauging whether I’m serious or not. Finally, he starts. He analyzes his choices, and wonders if inviting one probably-no-show will jeopardize a most-likely-will show. He spits them out, one by one, girls last, because, well, it’s not cool to invite the girls anyway. We settle on eight in the end, because I always give in, and because they truthfully won’t all show anyway.<br /><br />We talk about the games they’ll play, what the theme will be, the menu (he wants pie, not cake---it’s genetic on the maternal side), the time of day it will occur. It’s kind of fun to plan, because he has real ideas of how it should unfold, and I love party planning as much as he does.<br /><br />The farm will be very much put to bed by January fourth, his birthday. The sheep will be coming in and out of their nightly pens, basking outside in Vitamin D for at least eight hours of the day. The cows will be in the barn in their stanchions, for the long haul, waiting until May to go out again. We’ll be down to just the laying hens, on their timed lights, providing them with 13 hours of daylight. It cons them into thinking that it’s summer. I use the same hours of light to keep from going into an abyss of depression: no light, cold, hunkered down in the house.<br /><br />But there will be snow. And crazy ten year-olds, careening down the steep banks behind the house, aiming for the greenhouses on their out of control sleds.<br /><br />No presents, I announce.<br /><br />Are you really my mother? Dad, did she really have me?<br /><br />No presents, Dad reiterates. <br /><br />You’ll ask for donations to the food shelf instead.<br /><br />Yeah, right, he says (but it sounds like Yeahhh, Riiiiiight). There’s maybe zero people in this town, and maybe three in the state that need food.<br /><br />Ohh, ohh. This I can work with. This is something to work on. <br /><br />He recently did a food shelf drive in school. I was so proud of him, because he came up from the pantry, two bags brimming with food. I picked through it and reduced it to one bag (I can proudly say that we have just recently been relegated to above poverty status and no longer qualify for food stamps).<br /><br />Oh, he pined (after I had reduced the bags to one), now we’ll never win.<br /><br />Never win what??? Apparently, the class that brought in the most food for the food shelf would win a pizza party. It had become completely foreign to him why they were gathering food. Then he told me how a classmate’s sister’s class was sure to win, because she (as a kindergartner) was sneaking food past the parents every morning to win the prize.<br /><br />AHHHHHH!<br /><br />So this year, after his birthday, on Monday, we’re going to the food shelf with his presents of food. I’m so proud of him that he didn’t pitch a fit, after explaining that, yes, there are hungry people, and yes, we have food, so we wouldn’t necessarily know that there are so many without. He takes it for granted that there should be food but why wouldn’t he? That’s what we do. We may not be rich in greenbacks, but we certainly are rich in greens.<br /><br />Now if I can only make it through the Sponge Bob theme birthday….fat rooster farmhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13454101442908709731noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4423350024112030232.post-24568378404015966412009-11-15T18:15:00.004-05:002014-05-16T21:59:04.345-04:00Bacon and Vampires<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjM9eFt5_AQMYCru16xBEhO6zQTT7k-UbcZOvRl0952V3_jlLWOEYwHVBrdSrZuny9ZnUto5CffNMW1b4ghYh1kUF1LKgicwr5rbbbRKi_yiAL35B58C-UV3qx55APA4hAkEJ_7SrsIH6g/s1600-h/DSCF6215.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjM9eFt5_AQMYCru16xBEhO6zQTT7k-UbcZOvRl0952V3_jlLWOEYwHVBrdSrZuny9ZnUto5CffNMW1b4ghYh1kUF1LKgicwr5rbbbRKi_yiAL35B58C-UV3qx55APA4hAkEJ_7SrsIH6g/s320/DSCF6215.JPG" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5404475066792646242" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 241px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 320px;" /></a><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdr95bB2A00WIa78cymyQGXnXawS_mxkS9jUmevMH05o_mh07Cc8aMmMAMW8JKmXRc3ZQUOh4lTK_bVvgpAdVWorgfhZ62neahDkdUsOpqkaNeoLK4RQ-nH9K2SEVim_7eE23ZU3jM2Y4/s1600-h/DSCF6201.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdr95bB2A00WIa78cymyQGXnXawS_mxkS9jUmevMH05o_mh07Cc8aMmMAMW8JKmXRc3ZQUOh4lTK_bVvgpAdVWorgfhZ62neahDkdUsOpqkaNeoLK4RQ-nH9K2SEVim_7eE23ZU3jM2Y4/s320/DSCF6201.JPG" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5404474572867383682" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 241px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 320px;" /></a><br />
New Moon<br />
<br />
<br />
Yep, it’s true. I can’t wait till the new vampire segment is out. I devoured all of the books, I bought into the fantasy. I love the story. But tonight, I am fascinated by what has been lost in our culture. - the art of making bacon. It has nothing to do with vampires, but everything to do with ecstasy. Who can say (of the meat eating variety) that he or she does not hold a special place in his or her heart for bacon?<br />
<br />
It’s just pork, just flesh from the belly of the pig, but somehow, it’s transformed into a delicacy of indescribable sensation...bacon.<br />
<br />
Do we know how bacon happens anymore? Is it easier for us to conjure up werewolves and vampires than bacon?<br />
<br />
Because I hate what is put into the process of curing a modern day pork belly, I do it all at home now. The pig is killed here, cured here, and last night, thanks to my husband Kyle, the meat began the last process of being smoked here. He made a smoker out of an old fridge. We were lucky, because this was a fridge from the 1960s, metal, ceramic interior, and smokehouse-worthy, so it was well-suited for conversion. There was no plastic interior to worry about, no Freon gas hidden inside its interior to discard.<br />
<br />
Kyle spent the day wrapping cabbages in newspaper to store in the root cellar for the winter. They’ll keep in their container until June this way, wrapped in their moist blankets. Kyle asked me what the world would be like when there were no more newspapers, and I had no answer. Will the ability to preserve our food for winter be as wondrous as the existence of vampires? Will bacon be so foreign that it is easier for us to believe that a mortal and a mythical creature can fall in love?<br />
<br />
My friend happily signed onto a half a pig for her freezer the other day. She didn’t know that hams and bacon meant extra work. Hams are just roasts unless they’re cured, and bacon is just pork belly unless it’s tended to. Far from pork belly is bacon. She’s<br />
pregnant, so when asked if she wanted it cured and smoked, she said no- savvy to the modern processes of pumping nitrates into the meat to combat botulism, she had no idea that bacon and ham are what they are because of the process they go through- brining, then drying, then smoking, to achieve that achingly good, buttery goodness. Yes, you can cure bacon and hams without nitrates.<br />
<br />
In order to finish the bacons in the smoker, I resolve to stay up all night. Bradford has the beginnings of what looks like the swine flu (fitting since I am processing pork), so I have two excuses to stay vigilant tonight. Every two hours, I go out to the new smoker, feed the tinder box with a mixture of dry and wet hardwoods, and fill the reservoir with water. Every two hours, I gauge the fever raging in my son, and swab him with wet wash clothes and prompt him to drink water.<br />
<br />
At 3:36 am, after the bacons have turned a golden brown, and I know that I will be awake in just two more hours, and Bradford’s forehead is cool with the sweat of a broken fever, I crawl into bed with two cats and Kyle. It is warm and cozy, and I am soon dreaming of vampires.<br />
<br />
At 4:13 am, this all abruptly ends, with Kyle’s shouts of : “ It’s on fire, the smoker is on fire!”<br />
<br />
I open my eyes to see flames reaching up to our bedroom window, almost 15 feet high. I run out, with a bowl of water for a grease fire, and throw it on the inferno, only to make everything worse. Kyle appears with the fire extinguisher and gives a mighty blast, then another and another. <br />
<br />
In my head, I am still thinking that we can save the bacons. I’m yelling for him to stop with the chemicals, that I can put out this inferno which is now melting the ceramic, with water. It’s roaring. Reaching up and over to the bush that lays next to the propane tank which feeds our cooking stove. “They’re gone, they’re gone, it’s gone,” he says, with another blast. He was a forest fire fighter for years… I am out of my element. I sulk back to the house and try to sleep for two hours before my day has to begin. I don’t know what has gone wrong. Did the grease from the bacons cause the hot plate to flame up? Did the string used to tether the bacons to the hanging wire fail and topple the bacon onto the hotplate?<br />
<br />
Kyle joins me in bed after he is sure that the fire has been put out and begins giggling at his poetry:<br />
<br />
Autumn, and the smell of apple wood smoked bacon drifting toward the bedroom window. The sun is up, flowing in the south window. Wait a minute- it’s four o’clock in the morning, it’s too early for the sun to be up, and from the south???<br />
<br />
Be quiet, I say. <br />
Bacon. Do vampires like bacon? I bet werewolves do.</div>
fat rooster farmhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13454101442908709731noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4423350024112030232.post-72981727726247549102009-10-06T17:31:00.002-04:002009-10-06T17:39:31.768-04:00Gourmet Gone<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaP4knqJd9pNvjfiq0gZOyuDjDL9G2PuqdWeWgdmlrHFJsyMITqRpww4H6gUwO44Zws0g4j7ogPMqCbZ-1Ee2ZDQZ_UMNADwttqqn47wormH93N4iCyo-CVXm8jwU2uK1cJmjgcEtqAM8/s1600-h/2004_1010Image0006.JPG"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 241px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5389604827689477874" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaP4knqJd9pNvjfiq0gZOyuDjDL9G2PuqdWeWgdmlrHFJsyMITqRpww4H6gUwO44Zws0g4j7ogPMqCbZ-1Ee2ZDQZ_UMNADwttqqn47wormH93N4iCyo-CVXm8jwU2uK1cJmjgcEtqAM8/s320/2004_1010Image0006.JPG" /></a><br /><div align="center"><strong>“…influence and spending power now lies with the middle class.”</strong><br />- Conde Nast, speaking for why Gourmet magazine was forced to close its doors.<br /><br /><br />Huh?<br /><br />I am saddened and disheartened by the news that my favorite foodie magazine, after 70 years of publication, has been forced to close. Conde Nast sites that a 43% decrease in advertisement forced it to do so, keeping the more frugal Bon Appétit afloat in our stagnant economy.<br /><br />What this means to me, as a hardcore foodie, is that we have reached a place where it is no longer status quo to drop $700 for a table for two at dinner.<br /><br />This should make me happy. I have always hated this excess, and I think that the frivolity and wastefulness is somewhat like an ostrich with its head stuck in the sand in today’s economy. I know how strongly I feel about these things when my son becomes horror stricken at the restaurant when he can’t finish his side stack of strawberry pancakes, and is inconsolable about the shear waste of food that will not be composted, but will instead by chucked in the trash. I try to explain to him that this is a good thing to feel, that next time he will be more frugal in his choice, maybe share it with another person, or order less. At age nearly ten years old, he understands that waste is ridiculous.<br /><br />Yet, I thought that Gourmet was really trying to make an effort in a roundabout way. I mean, it was the first publication to link the politics of food with actually eating it. It was the first to discuss the pros and cons, the humane treatment of animals, when considering the boiled lobster dinner, or the finely marbled beef rib steak. It married cultures with food, tracing the ancestory of dishes, of hardships felt in parent countries between the growers and the diners, amidst the elegant descriptions of the foods prepared. It tried to make eating an experience at the same time providing the reader and cook with an adventure and a reality.<br /><br />Yes, there was decadence. Yes, they spoke elitist. But they also spoke local and sustainable and practical, terms that no other high class, upper echelon publication would dare to broach. Martha brought cool to heirloom tomatoes; Gourmet evoked historical significance with their use.<br /><br />On the farm, we are experiencing the most support, the most viability and sustainability that we have in the twelve growing seasons that we’ve been here. Support ranges from those who want to barter for their food with work to those who want to buy the best food available, no dollar spared. We have been inundated with qualified applicants for apprenticeships- people willing and eager to learn how to fend for themselves. We have a dedicated following of supporters interested in heirloom varieties of vegetables and fruits, and heritage breeds of livestock. It is an incredibly diverse number of supporters, from all walks of life, not just the middle class.<br /><br />I am the middle class- we are the middle class. And I for one, will miss Gourmet, where I could transform my cippolini onions (formerly grown by peasants in Italy) my rutabagas (the lowly cousin of the turnip), and my garlic (routinely referred to as the stinking rose) into masterpieces of culinary excellence, thanks in no small part to the folks at Gourmet magazine.<br /><br />What a waste. </div>fat rooster farmhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13454101442908709731noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4423350024112030232.post-66535807817995483362009-09-26T17:51:00.002-04:002009-09-26T18:00:22.031-04:00<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOqvlyEuhRifruG_6yjMA4t6y-IKFhrheE84YaN5iFJeKKg_ZIb-rQvBse6sqavIOzFRPeXp0xaftuer0eGr_9k8xZnZE-CM-5m8O_wDLiQpszaldWkItXSLVMGxXCP7kQhem5krxs_6o/s1600-h/IMG_9193.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOqvlyEuhRifruG_6yjMA4t6y-IKFhrheE84YaN5iFJeKKg_ZIb-rQvBse6sqavIOzFRPeXp0xaftuer0eGr_9k8xZnZE-CM-5m8O_wDLiQpszaldWkItXSLVMGxXCP7kQhem5krxs_6o/s320/IMG_9193.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5385899336403553714" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimzvUOCDUEhVuQwT3OVd6qOSFr7e6aBjj1a43A_zk3WnA32D1hf1tNuKetYneb3fGNZilPRS2KUxbKdiNxRvKwplliybUFo2RxfKY5nQE-it4QicITgZc69myFNYmR8WeQJXuGrxHanug/s1600-h/DSCF5753.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 241px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimzvUOCDUEhVuQwT3OVd6qOSFr7e6aBjj1a43A_zk3WnA32D1hf1tNuKetYneb3fGNZilPRS2KUxbKdiNxRvKwplliybUFo2RxfKY5nQE-it4QicITgZc69myFNYmR8WeQJXuGrxHanug/s320/DSCF5753.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5385898200468818882" /></a><br />I’m glad that this isn’t our first season farming. I wonder what I would think if it were. Would I just chalk it up to inexperience? Would I stay up late and blame it on the fact that I have no idea what I’m doing?<br /><br />There’s a barred owl calling out a familiar sound, in between raindrops, “Who cooks for you, who cooks for you all?” I hear the sheep, noisy in their August voices, mothers calling to their lambs, coaxing them to be weaned, because they themselves have been called into fertility by the waning daylight and turn of the nighttime temperatures. They’re more interested in the attentions of the ram than that of the lambs, almost two thirds the size of their mothers, still butting for milk and attention. Still, they can’t resist their baby’s call to be nurtured, so they answer them back, blatting their assurances.<br /><br />In the morning, the ancient black locust tree rings shrill with the songs of adolescent Northern Orioles and Solitary Vireos caught up in the crazy dance of migration. The geese do tap dances through the lawn, complete with mock take- offs and elaborate trumpeting sounds of leaving. Of course, they’re domestic, so they can’t take off at all- they just squawk and carry on.<br /><br />Everywhere, it is Fall, and we’ve only had ten days of summer. Seriously.<br /><br />For those of you who’ve noticed, I’m pushing the two month mark in not posting this blog. I am overcome with writer’s block, always wanting everything to come out more eloquently, more fit together and perfect. But it’s like this season. Unpredictable and unwilling to be summoned up. Today I found myself complaining that it was too beautiful out to be stuck inside doing farm paperwork. A complaint that I have not been able to have all summer. So I helped Janet and Tali clean out the hoophouse of the waning cherry tomatoes, who have bravely soldiered through the late blight and hornworms, but are now at their end. We ripped them all out, pulled the grass from the aisles and spread compost throughout the house. After being rototilled, it will be planted to spinach and mesclun for December harvest. Between December and February, it is almost impossible to grow anything in there without heat or lots of layers. Plus, it means walking through three feet of snow. <br /><br />The barn got white-washed today, and it smells and looks sparkling clean, the manure from the sheep pens having long been removed. The chicken pens themselves will be cleaned one more time before the winter months, and a heavy layer of sawdust and straw litter put down.<br /><br />The pigs are happily rooting about outside, where Dominic, Janet’s friend, has made them a beautiful pen, complete with a wallow and a shelter.<br /><br />The fact that we had no summer would be overwhelming me now, but I was incredibly fortunate to have spent five days in San Francisco and another 7 in Hawaii just last week. It was a fabulous trip, so perfect that I can now appreciate these crisp, fall nights and brilliant blue sky days. Everywhere, the last of the summer birds are retreating. The trees are turning colors, and the fall crops are ripening. I need to buy a new alarm clock, because the sky is no longer light filled and packed with birdsong at 4:58 am. Dusk is descending. And I guess I’m okay with that.fat rooster farmhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13454101442908709731noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4423350024112030232.post-54164875449453834112009-07-25T09:06:00.003-04:002009-07-25T09:15:46.207-04:00Chicken of the Woods<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_My_PKeAnXpUpdDpQgWz77dxOxHG3vG4_jZBWF71zzYYtSmkkigSF-pPLipqOlvfAm_MWO_nwziZBUZVQ7OeB4n1kQEb5nwEOF0owGerWnzRR1_R4zaNBLb18BhomPn456uPwHJ3UXFs/s1600-h/DSCF5491.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 241px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_My_PKeAnXpUpdDpQgWz77dxOxHG3vG4_jZBWF71zzYYtSmkkigSF-pPLipqOlvfAm_MWO_nwziZBUZVQ7OeB4n1kQEb5nwEOF0owGerWnzRR1_R4zaNBLb18BhomPn456uPwHJ3UXFs/s320/DSCF5491.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5362385198328263778" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYVgSlhjsDRKLQV-xEjsDRFv8G4ObzQBL1a0ZJPhvcB5BFsVtcrf8QExQDLhIx3mPX8shPgyGVLsQ0nshjaeXCGscMzdGYBwyjk2z3Tnpcsqg1g81rPOy3nX3YHajWdBEq935sS35TQ6Q/s1600-h/DSCF5541.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYVgSlhjsDRKLQV-xEjsDRFv8G4ObzQBL1a0ZJPhvcB5BFsVtcrf8QExQDLhIx3mPX8shPgyGVLsQ0nshjaeXCGscMzdGYBwyjk2z3Tnpcsqg1g81rPOy3nX3YHajWdBEq935sS35TQ6Q/s320/DSCF5541.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5362384083729354754" /></a><br /><br /><br />Every summer, I cajole someone on the farm into seeking out one of my favorite wild foods to find with me: wild mushrooms. <br /><br />Usually, their abundance coincides with the most intensely busy times of the year: morels come when the first farmer’s markets have started and the greenhouse is full of plants that need tending to. Chanterelles come at the height of summer, when all we think of is getting hay in the barn. And my favorite, Chicken of the Woods, falls in between, with nary a specified date in site, dependant on rain and heat to grow into colossally huge arrays of orange, succulent fungi. And usually, everything at the farm is in disarray and in need of weeding or planting.<br /><br />Mushroom foraging is a luxury, one right up there with having the bed made and the lawn mowed. It’s an extravagance, because, honestly, whoever heard of surviving the winter or even gauging one’s readiness for the bare season to follow summer’s bounty by the amount of mushrooms lardered away. There are several pounds of beans to pick, beets and carrots and Swiss chard to bunch, sheep to move to new pasture before even the smallest of shrooms gets considered. <br /><br />Today, I have been enticed away from the farm by my sister’s boastings of a mushroom field that even I will not scoff at. She says that she’s harvested three pounds of mushrooms and not even dented its surface.<br /><br />As a family, we tend to exaggerate, so I am not prone to believe her. We walk through the woods where I used to wander as a fourteen year-old, a place safe enough that our parents would not think to try and find us until dusk set in. Now, there are new houses where horse trails were, but still, it’s not as bad as I expected (I’ve actually refused to walk in these woods for the past 11 years, in fear of what I would find. My sister has finally told me that most of it is still there, the tree shaped like the number four, the sliding hill, the moss rock..). One of the houses is beautifully done. It looks like an old New England saltbox, complete with grey stain, a roof that resembles cedar shakes, and a horse barn finished with old-fashioned windows.<br /><br />We walk by these places, and I remember what they looked like, void of houses, when I rode on my horse by them many years ago, maybe 20 years ago, maybe 30. It’s fun to be walking with my sister, back down the same roads we did as kids.<br /><br />The sky is breaking clear blue, and I think about how different the weather is, right now, at this moment, just 50 miles away. I think about the girls, diligently weeding the garden, trying to stay on top of it, doing such a great job despite the deluge. And then we get to the Chanterelles.<br /><br />There is no way that I can describe what this looks like. There are orange carpets of mushrooms as far as we can see. Everywhere. We start picking. And we’re choosey, careful not to take the old ones who’ve sent their spores, or the very young ones who’ll continue the produce. There are other mushrooms. Frilly corral mushrooms, little ones with bright green caps, burnt orange, sun-yellow, velvet brown. It’s like we’re in a terrarium.<br /><br />Back home, after absconding with 11 ½ pounds of mushrooms, we are greeted with the news that we have the tomato blight- the one that has been spread by big box stores selling to home gardeners who have the desire to grow their own food, and who have unknowingly purchased and spread the disease- the one spread by a fungus called Phytopthera infestans. What a rough justice that I have spent the bits of time harvesting fungi, when a fungus has destroyed our tomatoes… <br /><br />We pull up and burn 300 of the 600 plants, hoping that the remaining ones don’t die. Shannon drops the F bomb (sorry Daddy Duffield, but she did), and we all just look, having only ever heard a grunt of discontent from her in the past. She planted the seeds, transplanted the plants in their pots, planted them in the ground after making the holes in the biodegradable plastic and mulching the rows with hay. Staked them, tied them, watched them grow fruits. And today, she ripped them out of the ground and burned them. Guess it’s worth the word.<br /><br />Tali quotes Godfather lines, trying to keep it light. We all work like mad, to get rid of the spores, to stop it, to protect what’s left. All that we have read points to total failure, but right now, we’re up to accepting this horror, not that one.<br /><br />At supper, we feast on the Chanterelles, that would not be so plentiful, if not for the rain. We don’t talk about the pitfalls. We just rejoice in what we’ve found in this wet, cool summer- like Chicken of the Woods.fat rooster farmhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13454101442908709731noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4423350024112030232.post-80184575551405986852009-07-12T21:45:00.006-04:002014-05-26T21:49:39.521-04:00Margaret Suzanne (Peggy Sue), 2002 - 2009<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjgKylIPAuHLt8oPuk703xTVuVjF70l9hlXFWHK_HR-8bKduTeOeWGpNi_uQN_55nbYgpNk_peP9C1mcIJiiQT4CImvlmp7mxx6hyphenhyphenmDlhZAKm4XGYqavOlbKRD_0qMhVSCO3a35J9pjvU/s1600-h/peggy+and+patchoulli+2.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjgKylIPAuHLt8oPuk703xTVuVjF70l9hlXFWHK_HR-8bKduTeOeWGpNi_uQN_55nbYgpNk_peP9C1mcIJiiQT4CImvlmp7mxx6hyphenhyphenmDlhZAKm4XGYqavOlbKRD_0qMhVSCO3a35J9pjvU/s320/peggy+and+patchoulli+2.JPG" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5357928694877306914" style="cursor: hand; float: left; height: 320px; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 240px;" /></a><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0FWozS05EpIIs5bky2AHaA6adb0hh_j4PyzLbRb1_7vjfrtDn9vbdBLwey9n0nF-u_PoBxsYPvcKYPAbroCEby8FEZzTLAx4v1N7fFByFsX_7k2W050bDcXtq3Cmy4veXOyqH151UoVI/s1600-h/DSCF2319.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0FWozS05EpIIs5bky2AHaA6adb0hh_j4PyzLbRb1_7vjfrtDn9vbdBLwey9n0nF-u_PoBxsYPvcKYPAbroCEby8FEZzTLAx4v1N7fFByFsX_7k2W050bDcXtq3Cmy4veXOyqH151UoVI/s320/DSCF2319.JPG" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5357928337320095106" style="cursor: hand; float: left; height: 240px; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 320px;" /></a><br />
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<br />
Nikko Tinbergen pissed me off at an early age. He said that herring gulls didn’t have the capacity to learn. He concluded this because, after throwing a clam down to crack it open, the gull couldn’t determine that it was easier to crack it open if it threw it on a ledge versus the sand beach. He concluded this after observing that the gull had tried seven times, and hadn’t figured it out. Who decided that seven was the magic number? I have friends who’ve gone through twenty years of their life, making the same mistake, attempting the same task, and still, and still…<br />
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I have a weird six degrees of separation litmus for most people that I feel that I can relate to. They are: that Simon and Garfunkle are probably some of the most influential musicians in the United States ( also David Byrne and Conor Oberst, to name some of the more non-obvious), and that animals, do, indeed, possess souls. I understand or can relate best with people who not only listen to this type of music, but who can also interact with animals that they are caring for with the understanding that these animals aren’t just on this Earth to please us. They actually have another purpose, and a useful and meaningful reason for being that has nothing to do with us as human beings.<br />
<br />
The Polish Crested chicken that became Peggy Sue was a hothead. She didn’t really like people, and she was fairly high maintenance, as far as chickens go. Didn’t like being touched, didn’t really interact with anyone. She was from a fancy hatchery that specializes in heritage breeds, and she didn’t have a lot of maternal instinct savvy. The first year she decided to try and hatch her own eggs, she forgot that a rooster was needed to actually have the eggs be viable. They exploded under her tiny frame, one at a time, until she was a putrid mess of rotten egg. Round two, she decided to start setting on the eggs in early November. When she got off the eggs to eat or drink, they would quickly freeze and crack. The third time at becoming a mother, she partially hatched the chick. I finished cracking him out of the shell, and Whitney named him Patchouli. Peggy was so proud of her accomplishment, that she literally ran that chick into the ground, procuring food item here, there and everywhere. Patchouli tried to keep up, but in the end could not.<br />
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On her fourth try, she had 16 eggs under a little tarp in the middle of the hay mow. After candling them (taking a flashlight and shining it through the egg to see the embryo), 11 were viable, and she hatched nine. Shannon, determined that Peggy would finally become a mother, put her on lockdown in a huge dog crate. There, the chicks thrived, and Peggy chilled, realizing that it had finally happened.<br />
<br />
She raised every one of those chicks to independence, but also to her detriment. Today, she finally succumbed to the stress. And I’ve lost my little Peggy Sue.<br />
<br />
I drove to Burlington with my sister today. Past where I rode with my first “boyfriend” (I was twelve years old) to the river, past the cemetery, past the place where Dad would practice his bow and arrow for deer season (he never got one with a bow and arrow). Past the campground where, as a girl scout, I camped and made potatoes in the fire pit. Through the fields, where the hay has still not been cut because of our horrendous weather, past where my best friend’s dog got hit by a car, all the way to the biggest city in Vermont.<br />
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Peggy was with us, because I couldn’t leave her to die at home alone. She rallied in Burlington, raised her head, drank some honey water. We left her in the warm car and walked Church Street, looking at the beautiful people eating in the outside booths, looked for bargains, saw the circus, and bought lots of Asian Market groceries. Bradford came too, and he got new Crocs at a bargain price at Outdoor Gear Exchange. It was a really fun time, the second time to my favorite city besides Portland, Maine, in a week.<br />
<br />
On the way home, we took the back road to the farm, to search for Chicken of the Woods mushrooms. I had a tree staked out, where Janet and I had harvested about three pounds the week before. When we hit exit 4, there were four of us in the car taking in the cool air that this summer is giving us. I told everyone to keep eyes peeled for mushrooms. “And that means you, Peggy” She flapped in her carrier when I said her name. And then she died. We pulled over so I could hold her, but she was already gone.<br />
<br />
Who gets so attached to a feathered thing? Who attributes so many human qualities to something clearly much less human?<br />
<br />
“Mom, did you know that a Flamingo’s brain is smaller than its eye?” It is my brainy child, trying to make order in this confusing world.<br />
<br />
“Yes, baby, but can you imagine how much is packed into that little space?”</div>
fat rooster farmhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13454101442908709731noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4423350024112030232.post-33482571523501045022009-07-07T17:52:00.002-04:002009-07-07T18:09:08.757-04:00<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqU9biy9C9ICMsUmLtttxnA_n7FSCILMMRAvbyYQSEvX847VUhSDAHUIfcYuegS5oVlxSo_Y09g9ixFwTcrHt5-gtROl80m_MVxToPcy-rxFZBczVkc5vVqHn46WfhxMEsxLHJDLLd8q0/s1600-h/DSCF5273.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqU9biy9C9ICMsUmLtttxnA_n7FSCILMMRAvbyYQSEvX847VUhSDAHUIfcYuegS5oVlxSo_Y09g9ixFwTcrHt5-gtROl80m_MVxToPcy-rxFZBczVkc5vVqHn46WfhxMEsxLHJDLLd8q0/s320/DSCF5273.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5355841639901651906" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgj8FlEfUFI5Zhc-H0C0eX5ljK_MLYntNBJXII7ZVGh4XjoFFsiXElURTfwpYWriktoqEEN_t2uD0rTRiyGZw0p0O6sPHwLCMm7-8MHdEiCOJd3oezVP3oNV038F8MUpdhKR7Z-rQEbu8/s1600-h/DSCF5255.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgj8FlEfUFI5Zhc-H0C0eX5ljK_MLYntNBJXII7ZVGh4XjoFFsiXElURTfwpYWriktoqEEN_t2uD0rTRiyGZw0p0O6sPHwLCMm7-8MHdEiCOJd3oezVP3oNV038F8MUpdhKR7Z-rQEbu8/s320/DSCF5255.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5355841635766762658" /></a><br />Independence Day. It’s the day we closed on the farm property, the day my favorite cat ran away and then was re found and rescued by Kyle, the day, as a child, when I’d ride my pony to the town parade, his hooves painted red, white and blue.<br /><br />I’ve always stayed up for the sound of distant explosions and the occasional spark of lights (fireworks), but today, I’ve actually just come to at ten o’clock at night, after snoozing so soundly that I woke myself with my own version of explosions: loud snores.<br /><br />My back has given out, as it does every year, around this time of harvest. So Janet has offered to do a type of massage that is supposed to re-align energy in the body. I jump on this opportunity, because I am a massage freak. Any type of massage is good in my book. It isn’t really massage, though, it’s kind of half Reiki, half pressure points, half what she learned to do on horses. Anyway, it quickly sends me into slumber, and I become blissfully rid of the stress of the delayed harvests, the lack of hay, the predominance of weeds, the blue spirits brought on by these gunmetal gray, cold skies of this particular summer.<br /><br />Even the normally uncontrollable nine year-old resists the temptation to move lying next to me, waiting for his turn at this massage and energy re-alignment (because he still believes in magic). I am skeptical that anything will work to make me actually want to walk again, but slumber comes in spite of my faithlessness.<br /><br />The next evening, the iPod is on shuffle. We’ve gone through Kings of Leon, then the Miseducation of Lauren Hill, then the Best of Leonard Cohen, then Loreena Mckinnet, live. Brit is cooking an awesome stir-fry, and Shannon is doing the evening chores. Tali and Janet are cleaning out the part of the barn that we’ve always referred to as the wood museum. It’s a huge room that is largely filled with beautiful pieces of wood that Kyle has designs to make into something later. Every sort of lumber that Kyle has carefully milled and stickered (the art of drying the wood with pieces of wood stuffed in between to make sure that the boards dry). They sort them, according to size and type, trying to make a place of their own to hang out in, away from main part of the house.<br /><br />The Peonies have finished blooming now. It makes me remember Whitney, who was here last year, and who unexpectantly became one of my best friends. The corn is planted, so it reminds me of Greggy, who was too Dudey for the other farm, and who we got instead. What a gem. It reminds me of Chris, a hipster that re-introduced Bradford to the Clash, from a hipster’s point of view; of Justin, who taught Bradford how to fish, of Marka, who kept the peace here, and of Jeremy, who hated the farm lists, and would set out on his own each morning, secretly protective of the potatoes. Maria, the sweet Bell from the south, who loved Bradford, and would do anything to keep the farm going; Joey, the rescue apprentice, and my crush, who painted the whole house in three weeks. Kate the difficult vegetarian, who ended up raising pigs and turned out to be a cool Mom; Rachel from Brazil, who shelled beans and knitted hats and played music. I’m reminiscing, it’s true, because I feel like anyone who has been here before, who has experienced the intensity of farming and its uncertainty should know how much of a pleasure it is this year to have everything so organized. It’s incredible. And despite the hardships, despite my nearly daily panic attacks about weeds and hay and who of the beautiful ewe lambs I need to let go, and all of the other curve balls this screwy weather is throwing at us, things are good, and they are going well. And tonight, I can walk, and remain in awe of the magic art of touch and healing.fat rooster farmhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13454101442908709731noreply@blogger.com0