Tag Archives: small farm

Fruit Pruning

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Putting on a workshop takes a lot of work and planning, having someone else conduct the workshop…not so much. Last Saturday we had another in our ongoing homestead workshops, this one on pruning fruit trees. Our orchard is still a young but firmly established thirteen years old containing a mixture of Southern and English heirloom apple, pear, peach, plum and cherry trees.

Looking over the orchard this summer I was reminded of the need to do an annual pruning in the fall. Knowing a few basics, this chore is done each fall with modest results. The epiphany hit. What would Tom Sawyer do? Aunt Polly is, after all, mighty particular about how this fence gets painted.

So, last Saturday with ten workshop attendees in tow our certified fruit tree pruning specialist (Andrew Merriss) conducted a workshop using our orchard to demonstrate proper techniques: pruning to diminish pathogens and pests, understanding tree growth from leaf and flower buds to shoot elongation.

It was well received by all, quite informative and at the end of the workshop we had a number of nicely pruned, formerly out of control, pear trees. And I think that if I have been good this year instead of my usual sweet potato and switches Santa just might bring me a pruning ladder.

Ruling the Roost

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The time of morning, just before sunrise, where the light is revealing the landscape, the animals are stirring but not up, the distant meow of our cat Mickey as he strolls up the hundred or so yards from his den to our front porch is my favorite time of the day.

Usually I’m dressed in shorts with my Wellingtons on my feet walking to the barnyard. As the buckets clang with spilling feed the chickens begin to flutter down off their roost with audible thuds. The hogs begin an unseen jostling for position at the feed trough signaled by grunts and snorts. My brain begins to kick into gear, fueled by at least one cup of coffee.

It is a good time to observe. And I observe the replacement rooster sneaking across the barnyard to snatch a bit of grain and a little love. This lasts about 30 seconds before the Cock of the Walk charges into him sending the boy into ignoble flight. Someday, and that day is sooner than later, the boy will have his moment.

Each rooster is kept on the flock for two seasons. Our current rooster was born in spring of 2010. In the fall of each year we gather up all the spring roosters in a pen. They get ample feed for a few weeks. And, then the literal axe will fall. But, before the slaughter date Cindy and I spend a few hours separating out two young cockerels that have promise. They match the confirmation we want for our breeding rooster. The culls get butchered, destined for gumbo or chicken and dumplings. The two we save are kept for an additional few months. At that time we make a choice and butcher one. The survivor becomes the “replacement rooster”. He is in training for the next year.

The replacement rooster leads a furtive existence, skirting the edge of the flock, dashing in for a quick (and I mean quick) romantic encounter. The rooster quickly and usually catches the boy and a sound “whupping” ensues.

In 2011 the old top rooster was butchered making way for the current ruler of the flock. A rooster, between 2-3 really comes into his own. He develops a magnificent deep chest, long spurs and beautiful plumage. Unfortunately for him his fertility drops 25% a year. So, by the third year he is firing blanks as often as hits, if you know what I mean. And that simple fact leads to the annual anointment of the replacement, like the corn kings of old.

It is sad to shuffle the boy off this mortal coil simply because he has difficulties in the … umm… you know, department. But, every year is the same, we are sorting out a couple for candidates for replacement rooster and promoting the current R.R. and preparing a sensational dinner of coq au vin with the “retired” bird. A dish, by the way, that was developed for the old boy who had lost his “crow”.

But, standing there in the predawn light, the old boy spots the young interloper, sprints the length of the run and vanquishes him in short order. At least for today he still rules the roost. I finish my chores and make it back to the house as Mickey arrives on the porch.

Pork Liver & Jowl Pudding

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Casting about in the freezer and trying to decide what to do with the odd spare pig part and inspiration struck, based largely in part to James Villas new cookbook, Pig: King of the Southern table.

1. 1lb of pork liver
2. 1.4lbs of pork jowl
3. Medium size onion
4. A ½ cup of salt, black pepper, dried sage and freshly grated nutmeg.

Add liver, jowl and chopped onion to stockpot, cover with enough water to hide the meat. Bring to a boil. Skim of any scum on the surface, reduce to a simmer and cover for 2 hours.

Take out liver and jowl, roughly chop and place in a blender. Add onions, two cups of reserve liquid and seasoning/spices. Blend until smooth.

Pour into casserole dish. Place in preheated oven of 275. Cook uncovered for 2.5 hours. Take out and cool. Place in refrigerator for another two hours. Eat on crackers or toast.

Wonderful flavor. And, we felt good to be able to use the “parts” successfully.

Piggy Love

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Lord Emsworth and Lady Constance (Clarence and Connie to their friends) followed me this evening into their new paddock. They had been living in the spring garden paddock, snacking on cowpeas, tomatoes, pepper and eggplants. I opened the walk-through gate and they trundled after me, noses to the ground sniffing and snarfling, reaching out to nibble on volunteer turnips, pumpkin and squash vines and the other remains of the summer garden.

Clarence and Connie, our Berkshire boar and sow, were ushered into their private matrimonial quarters a few weeks ago after he began to show interest in consummating this arranged marriage. He’d sidle up to her and place both forelegs across her mid-section, standing at a right angle to her body. She’d continue eating, which we took to be a sign of at least mild interest, assuming that if she wasn’t interested she would bite him.

She would reciprocate by pushing her haunches against him as he walked by, he’d keep going. He’d stop an hour later, take a look at her, drool running down his jowls. She’d ignore him.

We figure some night soon the combination of emerging sexual maturity; hormones and timing will culminate in a mating. Meanwhile, I watch as Connie is body blocked by a snarling Clarence from nabbing a 7-top turnip. Porcine chivalry is still apparently in its Viking phase.

Going Rogue

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Going Rogue

Saturday morning: With no warning the steer turned in open field and charged head on at Cindy and her horse. It hit her Morgan squarely in the chest, throwing her backwards. Cindy went flying, making a rough landing on her back and neck. Stiff and sore all week, she was reminded why she wears a helmet.

The young steer, just 425 pounds, turned and ran down the hill, leapt a fence and disappeared into the woods. Cindy returned to the barn and took off the saddle. I put away the tack and returned Oksana to the field. We left the steer behind, wherever he had gone.

The night before: We had bought him, along with four other steers, the previous day. The farmer 20 miles to the south, with a large acreage devoted to purebred Angus. The old man introduced himself as “the “M” in L&M Motors” (a local auto dealership). He had a dozen or so calves to select from for our needs. We bought five of similar weight. While loading, one steer was spinning around, in mad desperation trying to escape. We gave it little thought.

We hauled the trailer back to our farm, and I backed it up to the outer corral. The outer corral is fenced with barbed wire, while the inner corral is oak slats. Cindy hopped out of the truck and opened the gates and the door to the trailer. The steers ran out. I pulled away and parked the trailer.

We typically leave new livestock up for a few days to make sure they settle down and have no health issues before releasing them onto pasture. As we walked back out to inspect our new steers, Cindy said, “I thought we bought five.” In the 15 minutes it had taken to close the gates and park and unhook the trailer, one steer had leapt the fence and was nowhere to be seen.

After watering and feeding the steers, we spent a few fruitless hours looking for the steer. He was not to be found anywhere on the property, pastures or woods. If he didn’t show up it would be a heavy financial loss.

Saturday morning. The next morning when we headed out to feed, the calf had reappeared in the upper pasture with the older steers. Cindy saddled Oksana and went to move the partial herd down to the barn with the new steers. The older steers turned toward the barn. The young steer threw his head back and ran for the woods.

Cindy took followed on horseback moving the steer along the fence. Cue the aggressive turn and the aforementioned collision.

We have dealt with many frightened cattle before. But this was the first truly aggressive, belligerent and dangerous one. When he knocked Cindy off the horse, leapt the fence and disappeared, we wished him Godspeed to the next county. We went ahead and let the other steers out to join the primary herd.

Sunday morning. Sunday dawned and I did the morning chores, once again counting an extra steer in the herd on the hill. He’s back. Cindy wanted him gone from the property. I, not having witnessed the previous day’s assault, was inclined to let him settle down. After all, we had had wild livestock before that had grown docile.

Cindy was adamant. Later in the day I noticed a group of steers heading to the barn… The rogue steer was among them. We closed the gate to the inner corral. With Cindy at the gate, I began to move the other steers out. Cindy would swing the gate open and closed as needed. Meanwhile I kept a close eye on the crazy one. He was running wildly around the corral, head thrown back, tail swishing, looking for a way to escape. The other steers were docile and filed out, leaving him alone. I exited the inner corral.

Even though the wooden corral fence was high, we were both concerned he would go back over and once again take to the hills. So when he ran into the barn, I swung the gate closed quickly behind him. Snorting like a bull in the matador arena, he turned on a dime and charged full force at me, bouncing off the metal gate. I instantly became a believer: away with him to the stockyard.

But how to load the little bugger? We dropped a water trough over the gate and I began filling it. It only agitated him more, and he began to charge at everything in his vision–the floor-to-ceiling metal barn door, the walls, and the trough. I gave him some hay, thinking that might calm him down. He swished his tail, looked me in the eye and resumed the charge.

About this time friends arrived for dinner, on their way back from a sustainable farming conference in North Carolina, headed to their farm outside of Nashville. We showed them the rogue steer–he greeted them by climbing the walls.

Monday morning. Monday morning broke, Cindy went off to work, and I worked from home on the computer. As soon as Cindy got home, she called the stockyard in Athens. They were taking cattle until 8 in the evening for the Tuesday noon sale. I was still hoping the steer would magically disappear. She insisted we try to load him.

It took only a few minutes to hitch up the trailer and back it to the corral gate. By now it was dark. The steer thundered around in the barn. We turned the corral and barn lights on and began to set up the corral panels, interlocking 16-foot metal panels used to create a chute to drive docile animals into the trailer.

Nerve wracking it was to have him snorting and charging up the chute, and then back to the barn, only the panels separating us, but after about five runs, he finally ran into the trailer. Cindy, who had been in the barn, on the opposite side of a gate, waving her arms trying to move him out, sprinted to the trailer at my hoarse yelling of “HE’S IN, HE’S IN!” and slid the trailer door closed. Surprisingly, the whole operation went fairly smooth. We were both nonetheless sweating.

We made good time to the stockyard, ran the gauntlet of pin hookers. A pin hooker is an old-fashioned term for men who buy cattle at cut-rate prices. The name was given to Yankees after the Civil War who came down and preyed on a defeated country, offering low prices to people who had no other recourse but to sell. It is still used for people who buy and sell on the cheap. As I drove the trailer up to the gates, they gathered on both sides.

“What do you want him for him?” “What do think he will bring?” “I hear you, but what do you really want to get for him?” “Well, you won’t get that much. I’ll take him right now.” “What do you think he weighs, and how much per pound do you want? I’ll give you $200.”

Cindy and I resisted their not-so-enticing offers and put him in the auction for the following day. The check came in the mail on Friday, and we barely made back the money we’d put into him. Last night we walked up among our peaceful herd, grazing and paying us no mind.

As it should be….