I Know What You Did Last Weekend.

What did you do this weekend?  Did you go out to brunch, see a movie, go shopping? Want to know what I did this weekend?  I eviscerated 18 chickens.  I know. I know.  You are very jealous.

There is nothing enjoyable about processing chickens,  and while the YouTube video of the woman with the baby on her back digging intestines out of a chicken carcass looks easy enough; it is not.  The husband and I have done this deed before but unlike bike riding and ice skating there is no muscle memory to bring it all back.  I am pretty sure your brain locks the memory in a special dark place so you don't have to relive the farting sound that vibrates through you as you shove your hand into the chicken's warm gut and pull out all of its organs, or the sight of a headless chicken running around the yard. Yes, you will remember it as you try to go to sleep that night, but the memory fades with time and tequila.

The husband was in charge of the killing and plucking with our brand new handy dandy electric chicken plucker.  There is some humorous Deliverancesque video footage of our hillbilly operation, but I opted to not post it here.  You're welcome.  This picture should tell you everything you need to know:

You may ask yourself, as I did over and over again as I stood at the counter for 7 hours with my arm thrust inside 18 chickens "Why not just be a vegetarian?"  I reminded myself on Sunday morning after a night racked with dreams of broken gizzards, that we moved up here to try to grow our own food, and when you decide to locate in a place that offers a rocky clay soil and a four month growing season, you would probably starve to death if left to a plant only diet. So we eat animals. We eat every last bit of those animals because we know what it takes to keep them and nurture them until they are ready to put in the freezer. We know how much work it is to ward off predators and how difficult it is to butcher them when the time comes.

When I go to a grocery store  now, I see the faces of the people who grow that food and I am in awe.  It ain't easy folks, but when you put a roast or a salad on your table that you grew in your backyard, nothing tastes better or is more gratifying.

Chicbeth

Something wicked may have come this way to the farmette.  The witches foretold the prophecy on a warm July evening when two chicks hatched in the incubator.  The first was a scrawny little yellow one who was met with fierce hatred and distrust when I tried to sneak him under a broody witch. The second was a bossy little black puff ball who I was convinced was the reincarnation of Kyle the ineffectual rooster.

The two little chicks became best friends and constant companions in order to avoid being killed by the older chickens.   They all lived somewhat peacefully under the benevolent leadership of good King Big Red Chicken.

Round about September, it became apparent that one of the "Littles" as we called the two chicks, was a rooster.  There were some Peter Bradyesque attempts at cockadoodledooing but because the two were never apart, it was hard to tell which one it was.  I was sure it was the black one.  It was not.  There was a new rooster in town, and it was Big Red Chicken's kid, Little Red Chicken.

Little Red grew quickly and the sweet little chick who used to eat out of my hand, was turning into kind of an asshole.  Big Red still ruled the roost though and his quiet dignity reigned the coop.  But there was something rotten in the state of Denmark.  (I know, wrong Shakespeare metaphor.)  One morning as I opened the door to the hen house, I found Big Red Chicken dead.  He was so peaceful looking that for a second I thought he was asleep.  We assumed it was probably a heart attack.  He was a one year old meat bird and his massive size suggested that he was not bred for longevity.

Little Red quickly took the crown and his malevolence to all but his childhood friend was suspicious. Her status in the flock shot up from serf to queen in a matter of hours.  I could have sworn I even saw her rubbing her little chicken feet together muttering, "Out damn spot."  Double double toil and trouble indeed.

Ladies and Gentlemen, I give you Chicbeth and his power hungry wife, Lady Chicbeth.  Shakespeare's themes are truly universal.

Name Calling

Today I called Noelle the C word and it wasn't cow.  When the husband is in the city, I am responsible for milking the cow and feeding the chickens.  Not a huge time commitment, but when you add getting everybody up and fed, lunches made and putting myself together in a somewhat presentable state, it adds an extra 40 minutes or so to a morning that is already a frenzied, screaming, running out the door at 7:45 mess due to my fantastic procrastination skills.  When I have to drag my butt and the 20lb milker out to the barn at 5:45 a.m. for a puddle of milk from an ornery cow, it makes me upset.  What makes me even more upset is watching her leave the barn so she can nurse a very large calf.  I called him the B word and it wasn't Billy or Beef.

The days of having Noelle supply enough milk for every creature on the farm, seem to be over now that Billy is big enough to suck her dry in five minutes.  When I was staring at a refrigerator overflowing with milk a few months back, I was grateful we had the calf to share in the bounty, but now I am in a panic.  The thought of store bought milk or butter makes me sad, not to mention what it would do to my street cred as a self-sustainer.

We tried luring Billy into the barn one night but he broke out of the stall within an hour and went running to his Mommy.  A night of Noelle in the barn meant a night listening to the most heartbreaking laments you have ever heard. We need a plan.  Maybe he should be renamed Vinny Veal? I am thinking about inventing some sort of screw top teet caps.  I could make millions.

Lactose Intolerant

The other day when I was dining on homemade greek yogurt topped with fresh from the garden beet tatziki and cherry tomatoes, I was struck by how freaking awesome I am. Just five years ago the only food I produced on the farmette was arugula and blueberries and let me tell you, if those blueberry bushes hadn't already been on the property, it would have been straight up arugula salad and I guess tree bark.

Nowadays, I'm milking a cow; making yogurt, ice cream, butter, cheese (getting better at that).  Nestled in among the weeds in my garden, there is kale and beans and six different types of squash growing.  Never mind that I am not sure what they all are because I just kind of transplanted the seedlings willy nilly. Five different types of tomatoes have overtaken the green house along with beets, carrots, basil, parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme and the tiniest little cantaloup I have ever seen. There are meat birds in the freezer and a dozen or more eggs coming out of the hen house most days.
What more is there for me to write about?  I am now a master farmer.  Oh yeah. There is Noellle.

Trying to deal with a stubborn 850lb cow on a daily basis makes me tense.  As I sit here writing this at 5:30 a.m. I am filled with trepidation thinking about having to go out to the barn to milk the beast. What will await me today?  Will she stand with her body and legs angled  just so in order to make it impossible to attach the milker?  Will she try to kick me when I reach in to remove the milker?  Will she lunge and jerk in the stanchion so much that the milker falls off the belt and spills milk all over the stall? I can hardly wait. Dairy farmers, I don't know how you do it.  I genuflect at your courage and patience.

She will stand perfectly still while he milks her.  I think it is a conspiracy.

And then there are her Houdini like abilities to suddenly appear on the other side of the fence. Earlier in the summer the husband and I were woken by Prince letting us know that the cow and her calf were in the front yard.  After chasing and cajoling with treats for a half hour, we got them into the barn and then spent the rest of the day mending fences as the song goes.

My worst Noelle fear came to pass a couple of days ago.  I was in the house preparing dinner when Scrappy came in.  "Mom, Noelle is in the backyard." F*%k!  The husband and eldest son were away which meant, James Dean, Scrappy and I had to get the cow in and fix the fence on our own.  My first thought was to get my neighbor, but he wasn't home and I didn't want to be the damsel in distress.  I wanted to fix it on my own.  I tried to lure her with some hay but she was much too happy with the fresh grass in the backyard. The hay did attract young Billy Beef however so between trying to get her into the pasture I had to keep him away from the open gate.  He doesn't scare quite as easily as he used to.  I was a lunatic calling to her in my sweetest voice one second and chasing him up the hill shrieking the next.

I finally managed to get her in with a scoop of grain sprinkled on top of the hay and got to work on the tangled, trampled barbed wire fence she had escaped from and would surly escape from again if I didn't fix it.  I stabbed myself about a dozen times with the barbs but finally got the wire untangled.  Unfortunately it was hanging about six inches from the ground so she and Billy Beef would have no problem with a repeat performance. Thank God for the husband and his barn full of crap. I was able to find two moveable fence posts that I pounded into the ground and hung the wire on.  I headed back into the house with a smug satisfaction of my farmhand skills.

Noel and Billy spent yesterday behind the fence but I suspect there will be many more breakouts.  6:30a.m. (Gulp)  Time to milk the cow.  Wish me luck.

PS: Today she threatened to kick me.  I think it is time for a restraining order

Say Cheese or Not

Happy one month birthday Billy Beef! Wow!  What a month.  It started out kind of the same way I started as a new mother; looking at the baby who didn't want to go to sleep at 11:00pm and thinking, "Now what?" only this time I am looking at a giant udder at 5:30am and thinking, "Now what?"  Here are a few things I have learned over the past month

1. I can milk a cow like a boss!  The first couple of days battling with the 20lb Surge Milker, trying to hoist it onto Noelle's "belt" and then trying to lean under the 850lb cow to attach the four suctions all while trying to avoid being kicked, I ended up in tears and resorted to hand milking.  Cross that off the bucket list. Hand milking is for the retired millionaire who fancies himself a gentleman farmer not the woman who has to be to work at 8am with three kids in the house not getting ready for school despite my threats as I left for the barn.  I scoffed at the ridiculous price of the Surger Milker, but now I am very thankful for the Husband's impulsivity and Type A personality that, "Has no time to waste milking by hand".

2. Cows produce A LOT of milk!  Thank Hera Billy Beef didn't end up Vinnie Veal because we get 5-6 gallons milking once a day without separating mom and nursing calf.  I cannot imagine where I would put 12 or more gallons if I had to milk her twice a day.  We have a fridge dedicated to dairy. It is filled with five gallon jars of fresh milk, cream, butter, yogurt, cheese and the freezer has some interesting ice cream flavors: Basil Chocolate Chip anyone?

3. And speaking of cheese, I have learned that I suck at making it.  When I agreed to abandon the city and move out to the country, I told the Husband I would do it if I could make sheep's milk cheese. Three years, 72 chickens, five cats, two bunnies, two dogs, a miniature horse, a cow and a calf later, I still do not have any sheep, but I do make cheese (poorly).  It is way too sciencey for my cooking skills. I am more of the Shirley Valentine school of cooking.  "I like a glass of wine while I am preparing the evening meal.  Don't I wall?"

There is no drinking while making cheese.  Partially because you have to pay attention to temperatures and what culture to add when and the cutting of the curds.  The other reason is that it is very time consuming.  When you start at 7am with milk still steaming from the cow, and end the process days later, that would be one hell of a bender.

As I type away I have some curd setting for feta which will be ready in three days.  Farmhouse cheddar will take two months or more.  Since I am more of an instant gratification seeker, I have tried several times to perfect the 30 minute mozzarella.  I have had one slightly edible ball, but most have tasted like silly putty. Yes, I did chew on silly putty when I was a kid so I do know what I am talking about.  There is nothing like pressing a wad of slimy grey silly putty onto your favorite Family Circus comic in the Sunday paper and then peeling the image from the page and popping it into your mouth.

There are so many variables to experiment with to determine why your cheese sucks.  Is the milk too fatty?  Not fatty enough?  Did I add too much citric acid?  Was the temperature right?  Should I add the rennet later?  Should I let it sit longer?  Usually with cooking I just add more butter or white wine.  Sauce too thin?  Add butter.  Sauce too thick?  Add white wine. Food too bland?  Sauté it in butter and add white wine.  For my daily cooking I don't need to know the chemical structure of milk fat and protein and why milk is different depending on the time of day or year you get it.  And how to compensate for the different fat content and whether your cow was pissed at you the last time you milked her.

Fear not readers.  I have not given up.  I will be winning that blue ribbon for Best Cheese at the County Fair next year, but in the meantime...Watch out Ben & Jerry.  I am gunning for you.  Oh, and here's a cute video of mom and baby.

Yup. We got milk.

Billy Beef is two weeks old.  We were considering changing his name to Vinnie Veal, but cannot bear the idea of taking him away from Noelle at this point.  Her mothering instincts are intense and beautiful.  I thought I was a rockstar because I managed to push out a few babies, but I had a team of people helping me out:  ob/gyns, midwives, nurses, husband, best friend.  I can't imagine what it would be like to start feeling really crampy one day and all of a sudden see a slimy little creature come out of you.  Then, while experiencing complete exhaustion and bewilderment, you feel compelled to lick the slimy little creature clean and eat its placenta.  Mother Nature is the bomb.

It took some time to get Noelle into the barn to milk her.  She prefers to spend her time out in the pasture with Billy and his de facto godmother, Cody Bear.  Ironically, with his cinnamon coloring and white facial markings, Billy looks more like his godmother than his mother and Cody Bear takes her job very seriously.

I spent a few days trying to entice Noelle to come into the barn by bringing a big scoop of grain out into the pasture and shaking it so she could hear. She looked at me, looked at Billy lying next to her, bowed her head and gave him a low, guttural  moo.  He immediately rose to his feet and trotted up the hill behind her.

Finally by day 4, I came a little closer with my scoop of grain and let a few pieces cascade from my hand so she would know it was the real deal.  Again she looked at me, looked at Billy and gave him a low guttural moo.  He jumped to his feet, but this time trotted behind her down to the barn.  I put two heaping scoops of feed into her pail and locked her into the stanchion.  After a few failed attempts to attach the milking machine/medieval torture device, I decided to forgo the milking and try to get my hands on Billy.

He immediately fled the barn and I followed behind calling to him in the most Mary Poppinsish voice I could conjure.  He stopped a safe distance away and stared at me with a curious head tilt.  I thought my Dr. Doolittle routine was working until Cody Bear ratted me out with a warning call to the entrapped Noelle.  She whinnied and Noelle frantically mooed in response. I decided it was best to go  back to the barn and release her from the stanchion rather than risk her never entering the barn again.

We now have a pretty good milking routine. The husband or I go out in the morning and call to Noelle.  She moos to Billy and he follows her into the barn.  He has his own stall next to her stanchion and he lies down where she can see him while she eats and is milked.  I even got to pet him.

There has been no separation of mother and baby like we thought we would have to do in order to get our share of the milk. He nurses on demand and we still get about 5 gallons of milk a day.  It is a win-win for everyone, except perhaps the poor creature attached to the milking machine. Our little self-sufficient engine is really revving up on the Farmette.

It's a boy

To quote Jon Stewart, "Here it is, your moment of Zen."