Category Archives: Farm Culture

Stone Cold Love

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Of all the myriad ways in which the birds and the bees woo and attempt to do the ageless dance, this old boy had chosen the most ludicrous. Although the end result was never in doubt and he was getting the coldest of shoulders, I had to hand it to him for hanging in there in his efforts. Except for retiring nightly to a nearby creek, he did not leave the side of his beloved for a full week. Thanks to that high level of predictability, he provided us the opportunity to create and execute a plan to break up this “coitus unrequitus.”

A picture taken by a neighbor during the winter storm in January.

It began, as most things do on our farm that require compassion and nursing skills, with Cindy getting a call. This one was received at the college where she worked. A Muscovy hen and her ducklings living in a much-trafficked area were in danger of being flattened by speeding students. After assorted consultations with staff and faculty (and perhaps interminable committee meetings), Cindy volunteered to bring the ducks home and raise the ducklings out before returning them to the pond on campus. So it came to be that mother, babies, and even the father of the brood were captured, crated, and loaded into her car one sunny spring afternoon.

At the farm, we unloaded the cargo and placed the ducks in a seemingly secure pen. We watered and fed them, then stepped back to watch … and watched as the drake flew over the fence, sailed low across the bottom pasture, and disappeared to the south in a creek bottom. Geese mate for life. The ganders are remarkably loyal, and if either partner is indiscreet, we’ll never know: they keep it quiet within the domestic circle. With ducks, not so much. The drake, while his mate was home raising his offspring, was off in the wide world looking for new love like a sailor on liberty in port. This lad found an unlikely paramour a mile down the road.

As in the saga of the three little piggies, word went out in our community of the wayward drake. Sure enough, he was spotted within days in the front yard of a small clapboard house on a neighbor’s trip from town. The male of the Muscovy is significantly larger than the female and sports a head-to-neck crest of feathers. He is easy to identify in all of his warty glory. Once notified, we spied him under a large oak tree next to the gravel drive. There he stood, danced, preened, in fact used everything within his toolkit to drive his intended mad with lust. His object of desire paid him no attention.

And it would be a cold day in Hell before her love was reciprocated: this statuesque specimen was cast lovingly in concrete, and although apparently created to the highest standards of molded realism, she had the sexual desire of, well, a slab of cement, sand, and water.

But our wandering Lothario was nothing if not persistent. From sunup to sundown he stood by his newfound love, carrying on his one-sided conversations (no, ladies, do not look for parallels) and dancing around her unmoved and unmoving countenance, only leaving at night to return to the safety of the creek. Every morning he was back at the wooing, giving his all to break through that stony exterior. Knowing in his heart that the apple out of reach is the tastiest, he persevered for seven days.

In the end we managed after several attempts to catch him in a net, at which time we clipped his wings and returned him to his family. Over the next couple of weeks, restless and bored with his growing children and preoccupied partner, he paced the fence and gazed southwards, convinced that if he had just one more day, his stone-cold love’s resolve would have finally crumbled.

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Reading this weekend: The Unforseen Wilderness, an essay on Kentucky’s Red River Gorge (W. Berry and G. Meatyard)

Partings and Reminders

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The low winter sun is a trickster, part coyote. Freed from the confinements of summer’s leafy arbor, it shape-shifts across the horizon, always blinding the beholder no matter which direction he peers. Its glaring illumination finds me most days waving my hands in semaphore ballet simply to see where on the farm I am heading. Still, this morning I manage to glimpse a flicker of bright crimson in the perfect white light by angling my hands and spreading my fingers in deflection. It is a cardinal perched shoulder height in the hornbeam, plumped to substantial girth on this frozen January morning. I manage to outwit the sun and place him behind me, then take a few moments to stare at the red-robed fellow before me.

Folklore says seeing a cardinal is meant to remind us of those departed. If so, there is a lot of reminding going on on the farm. Pairs frequently nest in the muscadine vines, others favor the sweet gums, and at least one couple usually makes a home in the weigela at the southern edge of the yard next to the rusty wrought iron gate. This male appears to be by himself, which is not unusual, although it may be that his vivid plumage creates an impression of a bachelor life, while his mate, with her discreet browns, grays, and hints of red, remains present but hidden in plain sight. Then again, the pair won’t begin nesting until March, so he may simply be scouting, showing off, or spending some much-needed me time after the holidays. In any case, he finally flutters off and perches briefly on the livestock trailer parked to the north side of the house, before lighting in the top of the nearest winged elm. I cup my hands round my eyes so I can track his flight. Again, how did the sun shift directions?

My diversion ended, I approach the trailer and peer inside. It is full of fouled hay—first from accommodating twenty-two meat birds in the final days leading to their butchering, then from housing our still-unpregnant red wattle sow, Ginger, who spent her last night in the space—and it awaits cleaning.

Yesterday evening, gentle and trusting to the end, she followed me from her paddock into the trailer without question or falter. This morning, just after sunup, I walked her easily out of the trailer and into the pen at the slaughterhouse. I left her quietly waiting for the butcher to make his dramatic stop. Within minutes, I was sitting with a woman in the small cramped office discussing in practical terms how we wanted the carcass cut and packaged. It is a cruel world. But it can be kind, and sometimes both together. Ginger led a very good life—a sheltered stall with hay to burrow in; a large gravel lot and access to a grassy paddock; fresh produce, dairy, and mixed grains fed twice a day; plenty of scratches. She was never treated with anything but care and respect. She was given many more chances to succeed on our farm than those animals caught in the maw of the industrial farm system.

It is an old theme for us: that all of our actions have consequences, that even the most benign of actions, from hoeing the garden to shopping at the grocery, result in death. It is just that our modern world offers an all-too-convenient buffer, a spectator’s distance, that provides a camouflage, justifiable deniability for consequences. That is a position unavoidable in this farming life we lead: unwinding modernity one meal at a time.

After making a note in my pocket journal about cleaning the trailer, I head to the barn and finish my morning chores. Before arriving, my eye is once again caught by the familiar color. A quick fluttering of my own hands shields the light and reveals the cardinal, now flitting from branch to twig to branch in the nearby golden raintree, gentle and trusting in my presence.

Remembering the Old Ones

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Mutton

They gave me an old metal bucket full of whole corn kernels and stood me out near the front yard in a big corral. One of the men yelled a long high-pitched call. Then he called again, head cocked and listening, looking out towards the woods. “Here they come,” he said. “When they get close, empty that bucket on the ground and walk over here.” I don’t recall being afraid, just fascinated, as at least fifty grown hogs came out of the woods at a run. Those pigs ran right past a two-acre corn patch, enclosed by another wooden fence, and up to where I had dumped the corn. They snorted and pushed each other around while the men who had gathered closed up the gates for the night. Nearby was a cluster of horned Cracker cattle grazing. They had the full access to about a hundred acres of woods and the homestead, as did the hogs.

Sitting in a ten-acre clearing was the farm’s house, two shotguns covered by one roof, each side with a room leading directly into the next, separated by ten feet of an open breezeway and built off the ground. Across the front of the conjoined buildings was a front porch. The breezeway led to the kitchen, a large room that could be entered from either side of the house. The roof was of tin and shaded by two massive pecan trees in the front and a giant pear tree in the back. In the shadow of the pear was a large wooden cistern that collected rainwater. I don’t remember a well, although I’m sure there was one.

It was my first visit with my family to the farm of my soon-to-be stepmother’s great-grandparents in North Louisiana. Both were in their late nineties. The year was around 1967, which means they had to have been born soon after the Civil War.

The house was full of her family at the time of this visit. There was no running water or electricity. Come evening, I recall, the rooms were illuminated by kerosene lanterns, which cast an orange glow that flickered into shadows and on the faces of all the kin congregated in the kitchen. As the evening turned to night, we kids were brought in one at a time, naked, to take a bath in a galvanized washtub placed on the floor in the middle of the gathering. It was one of those old-fashioned kinds in which even as a skinny kid of four I had to cross my legs to fit inside. The adults had emptied a couple of buckets of rainwater into the tub. I was too young to be embarrassed, but my older brother still remembers being so.

Around the farm there were a number of low-slung outbuildings made of stacked logs. An old corn crib, built off the ground to keep rats out, sat off to the back of the house. The outhouse was close to the back door for obvious reasons. Chickens were everywhere pecking in the dust. The elders died soon after, and on subsequent trips the animals were gone, the dirt was covered over by brush, and the woods were getting closer to the homestead. My father would mow through thick overgrown grass outside the house with an old beast of a Yazoo mower.

On one visit we collected pears from the backyard tree, and each May for several years we would drive up there to pick blackberries. We’d bring a Rattlesnake watermelon, a thirty-pounder that we’d eat on the porch steps after lunch, spitting the seeds into the dirt. One year, after some of the timber had been sold, we drove from Lake Charles just to put a metal tag on each stump with a number. The loggers had been given permission to cut just so much, and my father was a careful sort who trusted but verified. On another trip he brought a shotgun. He and my stepmother took turns target shooting as the other tossed the clay pigeons in the air. My younger sister Kathryn, who was maybe a year old, would hold her hands over her ears and cry.

By around 1972 we had stopped visiting the old farm altogether. The last memory I have of it is that the house had been torn down or moved and now there was just an opening in a clearing. More siblings were born, and our large family had other things to do than make a four-hour drive north for blackberries. Thinking back, it is hard for me to say with certainty, but I’m fairly sure that my glimpse of the old people and the old ways, before all was swept away, shaped some of my outlook and even the life I lead today.

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Reading this weekend: Saying No! to a Farm Free Future (C. Smaje), a smart and articulate defense of small diverse farming and agrarian-localism. And, King’s Day (T.E. Porter), a lovely and brutal novella about hog killing day on a Florida farm.

The Kitchen Drawer

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Snakes: There is a snake in the garden, and its name is Reggie. It is just over six feet long (with special emphasis on long). It hangs out most days in the hoop-house or sometimes in the potato patch. Last year as I weeded a row of beans, I moved a drip hose out of my way. Only then did I find, much to mine and Reggie’s mutual surprise, that the snake was the drip hose. This is a fine-looking black rat snake who maintains its plump physique no doubt on an endless diet of mice, chipmunks, and rats. Stop by and I’ll introduce you.

A book update: My book manuscript is finally heading to the publisher to be typeset in a couple of weeks. It will be titled Kayaking With Lambs: Notes From an East Tennessee Farmer, and it should be available to order this fall. Please stay tuned for more shameless self-promotion. Castrating pigs is easier than getting a book to the publisher, I tell you in all candor.

Subdivisions: They come to all neighborhoods eventually. Fortunately the one I speak of is located in our outer corral. Last week we divided the space in half with a handsome fence and an eight-foot gate. We now have two dry lots for the sheep where before we had one. Magic. There is something so pleasing about a well-executed project that is also completed with a minimum of effort.

Gardens in the ‘hood: The pandemic trend of gardening seems not to have abated. If anything, it may be growing…. My best guess from a recent drive is that about 75 percent of the homes in our valley have some sort of vegetable garden. The other 25 will have buckets of over-size zucchini left on their doorstep as the summer progresses’ as a form of punishment.

Landscaping: Being the one who does most of our hand-mowing and weed-eating gives me the credential to tell you in confidence: flowering annuals are a blight on the land. Any plant that can’t survive the occasional whack of high-velocity string doesn’t deserve a place on this farm. (But don’t tell Cindy, lest I be on the receiving end of a high-velocity smack for running over an heirloom plant I mistook for a weed.)

Siesta: After 24 years on the farm, I am impressed how most neighbors, the UPS man, and all of our friends know not to call or visit between 1 and 3 p.m. That’s the sacred time when we take a siesta—our chance for a break with a nap or a little bit of reading and the afternoon cup of coffee to end it. Now if we could only inform the scam callers.

Antibiotics: The FDA ban on farmers’ being able to administer over-the-counter antibiotics to livestock is going into effect at the end of this month. Going forward, farmers will have to get a vet out to make a determination of need and (if the vet deems it appropriate) issue a prescription. I don’t have an issue with that … okay, maybe a small one. Good luck finding a vet who will come out to a farm anymore. Large-animal vets visiting small farms are quickly becoming a thing of the past, unless you have horses, whose vet bill typically carries a pricey tag. The few that remain are overworked and don’t have the time to make a hundred extra stops each day. A prediction: more pain, suffering, and untimely deaths of farm animals.

How long: How long does it take this farm to use a 50-pound box of fence staples and one large roll of No. 14 wire? Twenty-four years.

Chipmunks: Not sure of the reason, but the farm is now home to a growing population of chipmunks. They certainly are cuter than rats. And Reggie loves them—he thinks they are delicious.

Enjoy your week,

Brian

My Southern Garden

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“March 9th both beds of peas up! March 23rd sowed 2 rows of celery 9 inches apart, sowed 2 rows of Spanish onions and 2 of lettuce.” — Thomas Jefferson, 1767

It is no surprise that our Founding Gardener got giddy and detailed with the advent of spring, when the inspiration and the reality of the annual vegetable garden is ultimately constrained only by imagination and labor. Each January, mulling over the vast pantheon of vegetable planting possibilities — from artichokes to broccoli, cabbages to corn, all the way down the alphabet until reaching everyone’s favorite vegetable to gift (in quantity), the overproductive zucchini — I know in my heart that something must give. In the final accounting, after all, there are only so many dinners one can eat, so many stolen mornings to attend to the weeding, only so much space to devote.

This tendency toward overshoot, of course, may be evolutionary, that our eyes are truly bigger than our stomach. Fortunate for us, we raise hogs. These fellow gourmands have our back; they are all too ready to take on the challenge of a too-productive garden.

What follows are some thoughts on the vegetable annuals I do plant. This list is governed by one simple rule: plant what you want to eat. Although beauty and orderliness have some merit, if it doesn’t have a place on the dinner plate, why bother? (Which begs the question of why I raised those damned prickly cardoons last year.)

  • Tomatoes: I typically plant at least a half-dozen varieties, ranging from the unproductive but outstandingly delicious Brandywine to the sturdy and prolific workhorse, the Rutgers. With at least six and often more varieties in the ground and 20-30 plants in all, I’m ready for whatever the season throws at the garden. Too much or too little rain, cool or hot, a few if not all will thrive. A summer table without tomatoes is a sign of celestial disfavor. And besides, who would want to eat an egg and bacon sandwich without a slice of tomato?
  • Peppers: While one good pepper plant can satisfy a family, and the pigs will not eat the excess, I still can’t resist putting at least a dozen in the ground. Like okra, they make this gardener look highly skilled. (These are the plants needed to provide ample cover for my other horticultural sins.) I find that a planting of Hatch and jalapeño peppers provide what we crave.
  • Eggplant: I plant about four (usually Black Beauty) and as late as I can still find them. Because covering crops with row covers, dusting with diatomaceous earth, are activities performed only in the most lazy and forgetful fashion by this Scotch-Irish descendant. If the flea beetles are to be outwitted, my plants go in the ground in late June or July and we dine in September on eggplant parmigiana.
  • Southern field peas: That my beloved is not a fan does not limit the space devoted to this most prolific of all that is grown in my garden of Southern varieties. I keep more than a dozen heirlooms: Texas Zipper Creams, Red Rippers, the Unknown field pea, Polecats, Purple Hulls, each lovingly preserved in the freezer for their chance to be chosen to shine bright on a summer evening. A small pot of field peas (also sometimes called crowders) with a bit of smoked tasso, fresh herbs, and other seasonings, all simmered in homemade chicken stock for a couple of hours is as close to perfection as I might hope for in this life. To paraphrase old Ben Franklin, they are proof that God loves us and wants us to be happy. A bonus is to have a reason to sit quietly and shell peas in the cooling shade of the evening while sipping a cold beer.
  • Green beans: Just a trio of poles, formed into a couple of tepees and planted with the variety called Murphy’s, is sufficient for our green bean needs. They will keep us fed, if harvested regularly, fresh in summertime and canned or frozen for out-of-season dining.
  • Butter beans: A row trellised in mid-summer, packed with pods (most often Snow on the Mountain), mounds of verdant vines, conveying richness and a promise of food security at the table. Serve them cooked in pork products, in a jambalaya, or in chicken stock, buried beneath a slow-cooked, garlic-stuffed leg of lamb.
  • Lettuce: Sharpen your pens in rebuke, but lettuce is a backdrop to the seasonal plate, always present, even needed, but seldom remarked on or loved; a mere conveyance for the main event, yet, it is still essential. I plant a rotating crop of a market mix to provide textural and taste contrasts for whatever use is called for at dinner. Obligatory, attractive, but boring.
  • Garlic: Easy to grow, essential, exciting even, garlic should always be planted in longer rows than one can spare. For to run out of garlic mid-winter is to contemplate the dark thoughts of a trip to Olive Garden. We always plant at least two varieties, Killarney Red being a favorite.
  • Onions: A row of red and a row of white, well-watered, yields a surprisingly large amount for the larder. True, we can buy them, like potatoes, “dirt cheap” at the store. And we never quite grow enough to forestall their purchase. But having your own red onion, freshly cured, is just the thing to make that lettuce look and taste less boring.
  • Winter squash: Typically I will grow three different varieties (although, for some reason I have grown none the past couple of years). Hubbard, Candy Roaster, pumpkins, the list is endless. A winter squash mashed up with butter and Steen’s syrup, with a sprinkling of pecans — now who can think of a better accompaniment to a dinner of pork chops and rice smothered in tomato gravy?
  • Okra: That ultimate cultural identity test, separating the newly arrived New Yorker from the Chosen. I grow the variety Dub Jenkins every year, courtesy of that gardening giant John Coykendall. Okra bulks up a vegetable stew (which will always have beef, my protein- and flavor-deprived vegetarian friends), should never be seen in a bowl of gumbo (unless you hang out with those misguided souls from New Orleans), is perfect in fritters, and is absolutely lovely when pickled (but only made by my friend Susan or Talk of Texas).
  • Yellow squash: I grow it every year and am always grateful for the short season we enjoy it before the squash borers invade. Then it is gone, which is fine, because too much of a good thing and the palate is jaded. Served in a casserole with bacon (from the oft-mentioned Ms. Lundy’s cookbook) or sliced thin with potatoes and zucchini, then sprinkled with herbs and salt, and baked in the oven — these are my two favorite ways to eat crooknecks, please.
  • Cucumbers: That a fruit can be so bland by itself, yet leave you salivating in the kitchen, a halved cuke in one hand and a fistful of kosher salt in the other, is a marvel. Cucumbers never last long enough.
  • Cabbages: I will war with the natural world to keep these whole and fresh all the way to maturity. Cole slaw, home-fermented sauerkraut, or alongside some freshly cured corned beef or pork, the world would be less than whole without the contributions of cabbage.
  • Greens (all of ‘em): I’ll refer you to my Ode to Greens. Let the rest of the garden be washed away or eaten by the undeserving, but please leave me the greens.

Now, you may wonder at the obvious ones missing, potatoes and corn. And I do typically grow some for the table. But here, and just between us, I blush to confess, the economy and scale of the grocery store to provide quality at a reasonable price makes my efforts superfluous. Besides, I am a rice man by inheritance and culinary inclination. And, as for the noble corn, it is always at its best stone ground and made into cornbread.

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Reading this weekend two books (again and again) by very different Southerners, both of whom knew that the meaning of a good garden is hospitality. Butter Beans to Blackberries, Recipes from the Southern Garden (R. Lundy). What prose, what style, what wisdom and joy is found in these pages (such as the instructions on page 164, for okra and corn fritters with sorghum and pepper relish). And Thomas Jefferson, the Garden and Farm Books (T. Jefferson). A fascinating glimpse into his world and life.