Tag Archives: James Rebanks

An Early Spring Walk

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The first gate leading into the large wooded pig paddock hangs next to a building we call “the other house.” One of the few structures on our farm when we bought this land in 1999, it is the size and configuration of a three-bay garage, with two of the three “bays” fully enclosed as rooms. The previous owner had built the structure, then felt cooped up on 50 acres in East Tennessee and headed to Montana before moving forward on a more permanent residence. We finished out two of the bays for a living space, where we stayed for three years while we expanded the farm’s infrastructure and then built a home of our own.

The “other house”

The gate next to the building leads into a chute with two other gates, all of which facilitates the loading of pigs. It is through this chute system that I pass on this Saturday afternoon with no aim but a ramble with a cigar. Ahead some 30 feet is a pig trough, where fat, grain-fed squirrels cluster around the remains of a porcine feast. The massive barrows are deeper in the woods, taking a postprandial siesta. At the clang of the gate the rodents are off, struggling to get their bulk up an oak tree and out of sight.

This wooded paddock is markedly different than the open woods beyond. With a few shoots of grass here and there, it is more rocky moonscape than lush landscape. Pigs will do that to the land. In the past 15 years they have gradually thinned out the brush and the smaller trees in this area, leaving enough debris on the ground to please a tornado. I cross the one-acre paddock and enter into the 50×200-foot enclosure on the far side, where the remains of a 12-port wooden hog feeder lie unused and in disrepair. A skulking rat scurries past my periphery but is gone before I can turn my head. I pull out my little notebook and jot down, “Clean up feeder” — time to get our trash out of these woods.

In the middle of this smaller area stands a woebegone maple, three feet in diameter. The base is rotted and has been hollowed out by the hogs. Some day, maybe sooner than later, a pig in search of grubs will be in for a surprise, I think.

Across the fence is a clean five-acre field belonging to one of our closest neighbors, a young couple. The man and I agreed a few weeks back, while cutting up a large fallen oak, that I would harvest the field this year for hay for our farm. The area has not been pastured seriously in all the time we have been on this land, and I hope for a good yield. That cutting plus that from our lower seven acres should pack the haybarns from floor to rafters.

The flight of half a dozen whitetails through the brush turns my gaze. While I have pondered over my future forage wealth, the deer, who heretofore have been watchful, finally feel it prudent to move on, and at speed. White flags flipping through the undergrowth, quick sprints and then a pause, a few more steps, an effortless sail over barbed wire at the far end of these small woods, and they are gone.

Walking back, making some more notes of possible projects, I stop and scratch the sleeping hogs. They have three months left on this earth before providing an excellent return to us and our customers in bacon and pork chops. Just over the fence from where I now stand is our 12-acre hill pasture. I spent this morning subdividing it into small grazing paddocks separated by electric fencing. While we don’t rotate our sheep as often as some, we do more than most. Every two weeks they move on to a new section of green grass, at least in seasons of fast-growing forage. I’ll turn them out of their current pasture onto the fresh growth in the morning. Sheep do an effective job, much like pigs, of keeping the land cleared. Perhaps too effective: left too long or too many and our hills may begin to resemble those of Greece. So, it’s critical to keep them on the move, again and again.

I walk back to the house and put on our afternoon pot of coffee. Time to catch up with Cindy.

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Reading this weekend: Galloway, life in a vanishing landscape (P. Laurie). Both a natural history of the Scottish Lowlands and a farming memoir, it has echoes of the writings of James Rebanks. It is well-written, and I hope to finish it by this evening.

A, No New Blog Post, Blog Post

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Dear readers,

Hubbard squashes from the gardens

Good morning! Alas, no new post this morning. I could blame it on the home-distilled peach moonshine a friend foisted on me at the end of a very long evening (Friday night). Or yesterday’s late night, at least for this farmer, playing the card game, The Mind, with a guest staying with us. But today, facing a full range of farm tasks to be carried out between rain showers leftover from Hurricane Delta, squeezing in a nap this afternoon, and fixing some crawfish etouffee this evening… a fresh blog post goes in search of an author.

Meanwhile, if our ground wasn’t too sodden, we would be planting our garlic today. Instead that will have to wait until later in the week. So we will load up some lumber that was cut on the sawmill and store it in the barn, do some weeding in the hoop-house, put some fresh bedding down for the pigs and the sheep, and otherwise trying to earn our keep and the right to take a nap.

I’ll talk with you next week,

Brian

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Reading this weekend: The Illustrated Herdwick Shepherd (J. Rebanks) and How to Think Like Shakespeare: lessons from a renaissance education (S. Newstok)

What’s In Your Fridge?

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A farmer’s kitchen can be a confusing place for a visitor. Like stumbling into an alchemist’s workshop, tied-up bundles of drying herbs hang overhead, bottles filled with colorful liquids steep in the windowsills, jars whose bulging lids burp malodorous farts sit in the dark corners.

Fall flowers

But it’s when you open the refrigerator that things become truly strange. A farm fridge is a mysterious place where the acute powers of observation are an essential life skill. Quick, can you spot the difference between the two identical jars, both of which contain a viscous clear liquid? Me neither. Which begs the question: how often over the years have I rid myself of tapeworms while thinking I was merely relaxing with a freshly made evening’s old fashioned of bourbon and my premade simple syrup?

That slightly off-colored liver on the plate on the top shelf? Is it dinner for tonight or an organ sample for the vet to examine postmortem? How many times have I bypassed the homemade ranch dressing and instead retrieved the large jar of milky-white penicillin for the salad? Observation, folks — we begin to see why it so important.

Recently Cindy, having made an endless batch of coarsely ground pesto, decided to freeze some in ice cube trays. It was one of those Martha Stewart–type innovations that linger unused for years (an observation I kept to myself). A few weeks later, though, recalling her efforts, I determined a little cube of pesto tossed with pasta to be the perfect side to complement a grilled fillet of catfish. So, while I seasoned the fish, boiled the water for the pasta, I happened to open the fridge.

Lo and behold, there sat an ice cube–size portion of pesto on a saucer that Cindy had obviously thawed for future use. I pulled it out and left it to finish warming on the counter.

Meanwhile, I continued with dinner preparations. I tuned in to a podcast on ancient Greece and poured myself a glass of wine. I fixed the salad, tossed the pasta into the salted, boiling water, and put the fish into a skillet to swim in the simmering garlic butter. After about eight minutes, I drained the pasta and prepared to toss it with the pesto, when at that very moment Cindy came into the kitchen.

Glancing at the pesto on the plate, she said casually, “That fecal sample needs to go back in the fridge. I’m taking it to the vet’s in the morning so he can check it for parasites.”

Timing, as they say, is everything.

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Reading this weekend: An English Pastoral (James Rebanks).