The Ants and the Grasshopper

Our mega farm store Rural King was out of both two-cycle oil and bar chain lubricant for my chainsaws. This is the sort of common outage that no longer really surprises. I did not even bother to ask why. Cindy grows tired of hearing me come home and say, “This week, it’s yogurt! They said the truck was delayed.” Every outing it’s something — milk, butter, or, God forbid, toilet paper — those empty shelves, always rotating, never the same, our new normal.

The next meal

That whatever is out of stock typically shows up by the next time I circumambulate the aisles does little to reassure me that nothing has broken. I am not an optimist, though I do play a cheerful pessimist. Which is why I notice with grim fascination and humor the signs that our world of plenty has frayed.

An old friend and I used to debate whether we had too much in this culture. When I mentioned that I aspired to a “genteel poverty” he was dismissive. Well, the reality is that world may just be dawning regardless of one’s aspirations. Certainly, there is plenty that we don’t need. But when the nearby Kroger reduces its bread aisle by half to keep up with ongoing shortages, that is more than noticeable: it is a marker. And as when the global supply of baby formula or cancer drugs is delayed, there are consequences and impacts.

Sometimes it is merely the balance within a particular commodity that is off. That common calibers of ammo for hunting rifles have been hard to find for a few years is not news and concerns only those willing to go out and claim a live animal as the next meal. That the ammo commonly favored by the disaffected for mass shootings is more easily available is a somewhat more problematic concern to the larger society.

Or consider our friends’ elderly mother. Her car was pronounced “totaled” by the insurance company after a modest accident, when a replacement part was not to be found in the supply chain. It would most likely show up, eventually. But it was easier to close out the claim than to wait months or a year for a part to arrive. That there are few cars on any car lot to purchase, and only at a dear price, matters not to anyone but the person in critical need of a vehicle.

Movement of the goods we use to maintain this global lifestyle is principally done via shipping containers. At $1,500 per container, it was a cheap method of transport at the start of 2020. But that cost ballooned to close to $30,000 last year, and it has hovered around $15,000 for the past nine months. All but the most dull-witted can figure out that the cost differential impacts the chain as either a price increase, a delay, or a simple absence of product ordered. Any of the three has a knock-on effect that ripples through the economy, and reaches consumers as shortages and inflation.

Add skyrocketing costs of diesel to the mix, and a profitable store on the West Coast has to close, because the price of sending new books jumped 300 percent, outpacing sales and the cost of goods. Then understand that those everyday profit-and-loss considerations are being factored into every business decision by both mom-and-pop operations and large corporate concerns. The ongoing nuisance shortages like yogurt or two-cycle oil are being amplified exponentially throughout the supply chain, at least in the short term. Factor in timely supply deficits in key parts, fertilizer, and the like, and “nuisance” barely begins to cover our woes. These are only the visible surface cracks of a much deeper structural fracturing of the global economy.

Moving manufacturing back home, then retooling for a national or local consumer economy, seems an unlikely course in these resource- and financially constricted days. And, says my cheerful inner pessimist, there isn’t much we can do to change this trajectory. But there is plenty we can do to provide a little more resilience in our lives, and it’s along the lines of “prepare for changes and expect less.” It is old advice, but growing a garden, developing a basic tool kit of low-tech skills, learning to repair, cultivating friends who share your values and outlook, and stepping outside the 24/7 consumer culture — all can help mitigate.

Time, however, marches on, and it passes the unwary and the unprepared at a more blistering pace than most would have anticipated at the beginning of the journey. Best to be like the ants and start preparing now for our unpredictable future.

Gumbo Filé

The sassafras tree is easy to spot, with its three different leaf patterns (unlobed oval, bilobed (mitten-shaped), and trilobed (three-pronged). It’s commonly seen anywhere east of the Mississippi basin. As kids we would dig up the roots to make sassafras tea. The roots, as most people know, were also the original flavor for root beer, that is, before being banned in 1960 as a possible carcinogen.

When I was growing up in Louisiana, a purchased powder of the leaves (safe for culinary use) was on our kitchen table any night we had gumbo, added as a sprinkled garnish to each bowl.

When I moved to Tennessee in 1984, gumbo filé (FEE-lay) was initially hard to find on the grocery shelf. I would pick up a bottle anytime I visited the motherland. Each jar of the fine powder — which imparts an earthy flavor that some compare to thyme — lasted me a couple of years before growing stale or being used up completely. Since 1999, after moving to the farm, that changed. Here, we have plenty of sassafras trees, so providing my own filé has become an easy option. And, of course, the commercial product is now easily found at any grocery store.

Making filé is straightforward and simple. It’s one of those perfect homestead projects that allow you to step outside of the stream of commerce, for a moment anyway, and provide for yourself. The process is as easy as harvesting the leaves, drying them, and then pulverizing into a powder.

Last weekend I took to the woods a large container that had held a 100-pound protein tub for sheep. In the work of 10 minutes, I filled the tub with leaves and returned to the barn. Taking a plastic kiddie pool (which we had used as a water source for a flock of ducks), I spread out the leaves to dry in the sun. Today I’ll strip the stems, crush the leaves, and then jar the powder. That full tub will yield only a few ounces of filé. Still, it will be more than enough to enhance a couple of winters’ worth of chicken gumbo.

…………………………………………………………………..

Reading this weekend: Hogs Are Up, stories of the land, with digressions (Wes Jackson).

Reflections On A Fall Morning

The walk-through gate into the inner corral is as good a spot as any for a morning contemplation. I lean against it, coffee cup in hand. The previous night’s waxing crescent is safely abed below the western horizon. Our flock of pregnant ewes and unbred yearlings lay clustered before me, like small snow-covered hillocks dimly visible against the dark grass. A smell of lanolin and grassy poop rises from their warmth in the morning darkness. It is 5:30.

The stars hide their light behind low scalloped clouds. To the north, above the river, an illumination marks the location of the county seat, Kingston. Otherwise, except for a few security lights dotting the valley, our presence on this earth seems almost benign at this moment.

A few of the ewes begin to rise, defecating and urinating before taking their first morning step. Theirs is a routine that makes fertilizing the land remarkably easy for the organized farmer: Confine the flock at night in a small area of the field. Once the sheep have arisen and eliminated in the morning, let them out. Move the enclosure the next night. As I watch another sheep rise and relieve herself, I pledge to harness some of the collective energy.

On the wooden fence railing of the corral roost six Bourbon Red tom turkeys, all destined for Christmas tables. For now, they have the run of the farm, and they exist harmoniously with the chickens, ducks, sheep, dogs, and cats. They do not, however, venture to explore the pig paddocks. Perhaps the hungry eyes of our fellow omnivores put the turkeys off from strolling too close. If so, then why do they not resist my occasional picking up and squeezing of their fleshy parts? Do they sense not my predatory intent?

I listen, holding my breath, as one of the hogs in the nearby paddock shifts its bulk against the back of the shed. Does this portend a structural deficiency that will result at any moment in a 250-pound escapee. I exhale: the building still stands and the hog rolls over, resuming its slumber. Too soon the metal slapping of the automatic feeder lids will begin, and it will continue all day. Although the hogs have two acres of wilds to explore, these days, in the twilight of their lives, they prefer to spend most of their time at the dinner table. Indeed, our pigs have an obesity problem, but it’s a problem we both embrace and encourage.

Beyond the corral to the north, just past the long rows of collards and peppers, the hoop-house is a ghostly presence in the dark these two weeks before Halloween. Inside is a thriving patch of sweet potatoes that I continue to nurture, holding off a harvest until just before the first frost — a date whose arrival is anyone’s guess in this time of accelerating climate instability.

One of the roosters lets out a challenging crow behind me. Taking that as a signal, and with my coffee cup now empty, I turn to finish my early morning stroll, first past the ram lambs and the sleeping ducks, then on to the orchard and the grapevines, before circling back to the front door and inside for breakfast.

……………………………………………………………………………………

The Independent Farmstead (Dougherty): another Chelsea Green title, this one, although geared for the newbie, also seems to have plenty to consider for someone already farming.

Fig Nation

Figgy goodness

You just never know when good luck will turn on her high beams and hit you with some gifted produce or a home-brewed beer. We’ve been hard at what is best described as a homestead weekend on the farm. We’ve planted figs and blueberries, transitioned the summer to a fall garden, made mead and apple jelly, fed the bees…. Later today friends are coming over to donate an afternoon of converting logs to lumber.

Which makes me think of Fig Nation. A couple of years back, an elderly Slavic émigré visited the farm to buy a lamb for his freezer. A long conversation ensued (which seems to happen more often than not), during which he and I shared some of my homemade pear brandy (which also seems to happen more often than not). We walked about the fig orchard and got to talking about fig love and the joys and struggles of growing figs in the upper South. He mentioned a cold-hardy variety that he had had success growing in Blount County. The conversation and afternoon then drifted on to other topics.

A couple of weeks later, a mystery package arrived from an out-of-state nursery. It contained six small rootstocks of figs, a gift from the farm visitor. Since that time we’ve nurtured them along, first in pots in the house, then in the rich soil of the hoop-house. Finally, yesterday morning I dug them up and divided the rootstock of each into new plants. Two of each went into the orchard. The remaining figs were gifted to two more friends in the valley.

What took place here is an example of what I call “Fig Nation,” an informal farm economy and community based on producing, sharing, and enjoying. The concept of Fig Nation is simple: A few weeks back, my nephew and I harvested five pounds of elderberries. We cleaned, bagged, and tossed them in the freezer. Yesterday I pulled them out and combined them with water and honey to make an elderberry mead. Come winter, I’ll enjoy the mead with guests. Welcome to Fig Nation, where sharing brings pleasure and automatic membership.

Those friends coming over to help with the sawmill? While here, they also plan to use our cider mill for some perry from their pear crop. After milling lumber and pears, we will conclude the day with a glass or two of my newly bottled raspberry wine — members in good standing in Fig Nation must be prepared to produce, converse, work, and sip.

So you see, Fig Nation, in concept and in practice, isn’t difficult at all. Now, you may find the founding premise a bit too anarchistic, this making and giving and receiving. And, if you don’t comprehend, I’m not allowed to explain it in detail — except to say, it is not a bad way to spend your days and evenings and life.

It’s Not the Grapes

In the John Sayles play “At the Anarchist Convention,” one of the old anarchists makes it a point to say that he refuses to eat grapes at the annual dinner. In a beautiful bit of back and forth with his comrades, he conflates the grapes on the plate with the famous 1970s grape boycott in support of striking farmworkers.

As a small-farm farmer, I often think of this play and how we, as a society, are prone to confusing the thing (the grape) with the process (the strike). For example, we disparage any grain feeding of livestock, when what we’re really protesting are the practices of the industrial feedlots and the monocultural production of millions of acres of commodity corn. Now this is not to say, Mr. Pollan, that raising livestock exclusively on grain hasn’t got its own set of problems, whether on an industrial or a small farm. But addressing appropriate process, scale, and humane treatment can help us frame a better question that yields a better answer than simply blaming the thing.

Yesterday, we butchered a couple of dozen Cornish X White Rock chickens. The day-old chicks we purchased a mere 8.5 weeks ago had grown out to produce an astounding 4.5-pound carcass. (Think of a Rottweiler and a Chihuahua side by side, and you’ll have an idea of how fast the cross grows compared to the traditional farm variety.) As a super-fast-growing bird, the Cornish-Rock has several issues of concern from the small-producer standpoint — weak limbs and lack of hardiness, to name two. But the bird, in and of itself, is not the crux of the problem.

The real problem is its role in the agri-industrial system. This commercial cross was bred specifically and exclusively for industrial exploitation: The Cornish-Rock cross is an ideal partner for the vertical factory model — a model in which bird, agribusinessman, and illegal immigrant plant worker are tightly bound in the same machine that spits out soylent green parts for consumption by the masses. The model that provides cheap protein, provides cheap veggies, provides cheap clothing, provides a cheapened life….

The grapes ain’t the problem, folks. It’s the process by which the grapes got to your table.