Tag Archives: sustainability

Anarchy or Order

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Reading over some of these four hundred pages of farm notes the other day and the saying “the more things change the more they stay the same” crossed my mind. Certain themes are recurrent: food, labor, the seasons, community and chaos.

Last night after a long and productive day as we watched raw sewage bubble up through the access cap to the septic line the latter theme was on my mind. The day started with Caleb and me trudging up to the back for a five hour session of mending fences. Hard but gratifying work under blue skies and cool fall temperatures is not the worst way to spend a portion of one’s day. Around one o’clock we headed back home, put our tools away and went in the house. Caleb departed soon after for home and Cindy caught me up on her morning.

She had made a trip to town for livestock feed, got her haircut, made yogurt and put an errant steer up… three times. She gave up on him after the fourth escape. So, tired and ready for my beauty rest we instead both put on our boots and went in search of him. Easily found standing in our neighbor’s yard we put him back up and moved the herd to a new pasture. Well, at least we tried numerous times. The herd was not in a cooperative mood. We gave up.

Back in the house Cindy napped while I renewed my knowledge on honey extraction. She arose after an hour refreshed and we headed out and spent a couple of hours raiding the hives for honey. Twelve quarts of honey later, a few thousand aggrieved bees and we were done except for the clean-up.

We walked back in the house, satisfied but weary, for coffee. It was my night to cook so I pulled out a rooster that had been thawing in the fridge and got to work. Cindy pulled her boots back on, got the dogs, and moved the cattle up to the back forty. Hopefully they will all be satisfied with the menu of fescue and stay within our property lines.

She finished up the chores while I finished a dish of chicken mole poblano with a side of rice and a salad of rocket greens. We dined, mostly in silence, tired from a long day with some unexpected detours. An hour or so before bed, after an excursion to the bathroom, it was discovered that the commode was unresponsive: Cue standing out in the dark watching the sewage fountain.

Up at dawn I pulled out our electric auger and cleared the drain to the septic system. Anarchy or Order: some days all we do is hold the one at bay.

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.

Stewards of the Decline

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Legs perched on handlebars, hands dangling by his sides; he steers by graceful childhood joy into the parking lot of Paul’s Market, as my truck moves past. Not for him any concern of past or future, no awareness of shuttered glances between parents and eloquent silences. These come later, in half remembered visions if he is lucky, or not at all if he is not.

For now, I wonder, does he have that unfocused pleasure in being young; a Tom Sawyer seeing Pirates and treasure among the general decline?

Who would spoil those few years by contributing to a flood of unwanted, un-blockable data: streams of image destroying commercials, internet porn, and mom’s new “Dad”? Is he able to construct a fort of fabrication, holding off barbarian hordes with dirt clods and sling shots. Or, are his friends already “cool”? Are there any gentle pleasures for him these last days of summer? Or, is his sister showing off her new tattoo?

I wish him a cone of oblivion to the present: A pig-wallow of false innocence to keep away the burning sunlight.

Out of sight from the rear view mirror, he has blended into the past. Already, he is too distant to benefit from the man he will become. No amount of rooftop shouting will reach his ear; all pleas to stand still and resist the flow of time are only whispers that sound like spokes rattling on his bicycle wheels.

There is Mr. Junior waving as I round the bend. Does he at 94 voicelessly shout to me, poised, as in the middle I am, to heed his advice and warnings of the road ahead?

The road winds on into the town of Sweetwater, avoiding the interstate, I travel Oakland Rd to downtown. Past the Farmer’s Co-op fertilizer storage, past the used car-lot, the old post-office, the three block downtown area revitalized with antiques shops selling a past we cannot have.

The closed textile mills, one with new life promising that we can “sell it for you on E-Bay”, a promise of deceit for a culture of conspicuous consumption that the crap bought today will bring riches tomorrow. And, I wonder do I hear a voice shouting from a rooftop?

I pass Richesin’s Feed and Seed: closed after 75 years by people who can’t be bothered to rearrange their shopping hours. The same people navigating by siren calls will close Archer’s Pharmacy in the next year as they ground in the breakwater at Walgreens.

And I hear the whispers as my wheels turn.

I leave town and pass a new home, two stories, incomplete, gradually falling in on its self. Outlasting as a ruin the relationship it now mirrors.

Pulling back onto our farm I survey all we have done in knowledge that all the work is as temporary as our tenure on this place. I hear Junior call from six miles away, “We are only stewards of the decline”.

Barn Swallows Vs. Man

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If I stand still and watch it come in on its flight plan it is almost impossible to not flinch and look away. This summer seems different. Perhaps you have experienced this before but we have not. It started about three weeks ago. Like Hitchcock’s The Birds, our barn swallows have become aggressive towards us.

Your first warning is the loud chirping in the distance swiftly coming towards you, a piercing cry near your ear and fading with an avian Doppler effect. Constant and covering a large area they patrol. Barn swallows fly with fascinating precision, swooping, stopping and attacking bugs…usually.

We now find ourselves sympathetic with the mockingbird who has engaged in a similar campaign of harassment to our cat. Now he finds himself on the other end. We have a mockingbird nesting in our Carolina jasmine. Each time he ventures out to bring food to the nest the swallows attack from all directions.

They have built a nest under the eaves of the house. Even as I sit in the backyard typing they dive on me every thirty seconds. But, it is when I’m walking they do their worst. A few line up in the middle distance, say 30 yards away. Taking a direct line on my path they fly directly at my face, squawking all the way. At the last moment when just a few feet away they veer away with a triumphant piercing cry as I flinch.

As a test stand still and watched the whole flight to your face. Honesty it took several tries before I could watch without flinching and looking away. I won. Won? What does it say about a grown man who feels the need to do battle with a barn swallow?

The farm kid and I, while working on a fence in the woods a few weeks back were slathering Off on to keep away the ticks. He mused, who is smarter, the humans spraying a toxin on themselves or the ticks who avoid it? Ticks, barn swallows or Brian, please don’t answer the question.