Our intern and friend Ingrid has a blog some of you may enjoy. It is called Open Eyes. Ingrid is a teacher of creative writing, violin and theology. Some of her friends have a hard time believing she would want to come to the farm and do hard stinking labor on a volunteer basis. I think they would have a hard time believing she would want to come and work for money!
It is such a joy to have Ingrid on the farm. I am very grateful for her hard work. Summer duties are endless. Having an extra set of hands is a part of sustainability. Not to mention the benefits our family gains by being around such a terrific, smart and funny gal. We have been very blessed to enjoy some amazing young people. I guess at 25 she is definitely not THAT young, even if the kids have asked Ingrid what she wants to be when she grows up. It is fun knowing that even though we are baby farmers with little experience, we still have something to offer others. Even the kids get to participate in the process of teaching Ingrid about stuff like milking the goats and processing chickens.
If you check out her blog you will enjoy another facet of farm life written very eloquently by Ingrid. A different perspective. Along with a few pictures. Here is her link: www.ipierce84.wordpress.com.
Thursday, July 30, 2009
Welcome Back Rachel Banks!
For days Nora extolled the virtues of Rachel Banks to our friend Ingrid.
"Rachel Banks did this. Rachel Banks did that. Rachel Banks is coming back for a visit. I can't wait to see Rachel Banks."
Rachel interned with us for a few weeks last fall and then again in the winter. She visited in the spring and is now with us in summer. She drove all the way from Missouri to attend a family wedding and then headed our direction with her two brothers. Thankfully they arrived while the rest of the gang was watching Food, Inc at the Grandin Theater.
I say thankfully because that gave Nora the opportunity to give Rachel and her brothers the tour of the farm, to show them all the new stuff like the chicks and the hay and the garden. The boys helped me pick some carrots and turnips and cucumbers. Nora updated Rachel on all the animal happenings.
We are so happy Rachel is back for a visit. They immediately jumped in and helped transfer the pig to a new area with fresh grass. We all had a supper on the deck of curried potatoes and cabbage, spaghetti squash and fresh tomatoes and carrots. The boys drank many glasses of goats milk. Then we had a delightful tea party with the girls, Ingrid and Rachel. We used our best manners (most of the time) and laughed and laughed and laughed. Then the thunder rolled in, the rains poured down, and little girls and big girls ran out to dance in the deluge. (but not the Mom.) Lightening drove them all inside.
Great fun.
"Rachel Banks did this. Rachel Banks did that. Rachel Banks is coming back for a visit. I can't wait to see Rachel Banks."
Rachel interned with us for a few weeks last fall and then again in the winter. She visited in the spring and is now with us in summer. She drove all the way from Missouri to attend a family wedding and then headed our direction with her two brothers. Thankfully they arrived while the rest of the gang was watching Food, Inc at the Grandin Theater.
I say thankfully because that gave Nora the opportunity to give Rachel and her brothers the tour of the farm, to show them all the new stuff like the chicks and the hay and the garden. The boys helped me pick some carrots and turnips and cucumbers. Nora updated Rachel on all the animal happenings.
We are so happy Rachel is back for a visit. They immediately jumped in and helped transfer the pig to a new area with fresh grass. We all had a supper on the deck of curried potatoes and cabbage, spaghetti squash and fresh tomatoes and carrots. The boys drank many glasses of goats milk. Then we had a delightful tea party with the girls, Ingrid and Rachel. We used our best manners (most of the time) and laughed and laughed and laughed. Then the thunder rolled in, the rains poured down, and little girls and big girls ran out to dance in the deluge. (but not the Mom.) Lightening drove them all inside.
Great fun.
Tuesday, July 28, 2009
Roosters
One can only have so many roosters on the farm.
We have several flocks of chickens, some in a chicken yard near the house, some in a little field, some in the barn.
Roosters are wonderful protectors of their hens. They make sure the girls get food, gather them round when hawks fly over head.
Too many roosters mean fights. Mean fights. Since cockfighting is illegal in these parts, we try to keep roosters to a reasonable number.
A while back we ordered meat chicks. With the order came a number of free roosters.
Free meat!
I guess I knew that there is nothing free in this world.
Roosters eat a lot of food. They crow. They scratch up the garden. They have to be harvested.
So today we harvested roosters.
Rhode Island Reds, Black Austrolorps, White Rocks.
Our partners in poultry processing (Serge and James) came to work. Arlene, a new friend from down the road, brought ice and doughnuts. Ingrid, our intern joined in on the "fun." Sean jumped right in as well.
Thomas and Philip set the stage by bringing the plucker machine, the counter top and the scalding equipment up to the house.
Serge puts up the tarp for shade. Sean brings all the stuff we are missing (hose, propane tank, hose connectors.) Rose, Ingrid, James Patrick and Maggie catch roosters. Patrick performs humane execution, teaching Ingrid the basics. (Way to go Ingrid! Not the most pleasant of tasks, but a useful one if you find yourself hungry and no one else is around to process your chicken.) Serge, Sean and I scald, pluck and eviscerate the birds. Serge walked Ingrid through the steps of evisceration, many details on the proper names of the bird's anatomy. We all got a great biology lesson as we worked. Arlene washed the birds and placed them in the tubs of ice water. My friend Stewart (Serge's wife) brought the lemons and olive oil for the hummus and plenty of vacuum sealer bags.
Everyone cleaned up and put away equipment while I prepared lunch of homemade hummus, flat bread, garden veggies, roasted eggplant and cheese and olives with a side of fried gizzards for the brave members of the group with really good teeth.
I vacuum-sealed the chickens and placed them in the fridge to chill a couple of days.
We will not roast these old roosters. We will boil them for soups. We will stew them for gumbo or make them into chicken enchiladas. Perhaps some chicken and dumplings some winter evening. Chicken a la king. Chicken curry and rice.
Once again, farm life with friends gives the opportunity for community to be expressed via legitimate worthwhile labor. Tiring labor. Stinky labor. Labor that produces food for our families along with lifelong memories.
I wished to go see a screening of the movie FRESH this evening. It is a film about the sustainable agriculture movement.
After a late Weston A Price meeting at another area farm last night and a hard day's work processing poultry today, I was just too tired to go to Lexington. Philip and Thomas went in my stead. I hope they take notes.
It gives me great joy to know that somehow or another, providence has placed us in a situation where we can live out the principles of the movie. What a miracle! Who would have imagined that we would be raising our meat, our veggies our fruits and our dairy on our own farm? Not too many years ago we were the family with the overflowing shopping cart in Sam's Club, shopping for the cheapest and biggest. I feel satisfied and grateful. And tired. The dining room is filled with baskets of clean laundry. We will fold it tomorrow as we make plum jam. But for now, to bed. The sustainable agriculture movement has been great for my sleep habits. Hit the pillow, out like a light!
We have several flocks of chickens, some in a chicken yard near the house, some in a little field, some in the barn.
Roosters are wonderful protectors of their hens. They make sure the girls get food, gather them round when hawks fly over head.
Too many roosters mean fights. Mean fights. Since cockfighting is illegal in these parts, we try to keep roosters to a reasonable number.
A while back we ordered meat chicks. With the order came a number of free roosters.
Free meat!
I guess I knew that there is nothing free in this world.
Roosters eat a lot of food. They crow. They scratch up the garden. They have to be harvested.
So today we harvested roosters.
Rhode Island Reds, Black Austrolorps, White Rocks.
Our partners in poultry processing (Serge and James) came to work. Arlene, a new friend from down the road, brought ice and doughnuts. Ingrid, our intern joined in on the "fun." Sean jumped right in as well.
Thomas and Philip set the stage by bringing the plucker machine, the counter top and the scalding equipment up to the house.
Serge puts up the tarp for shade. Sean brings all the stuff we are missing (hose, propane tank, hose connectors.) Rose, Ingrid, James Patrick and Maggie catch roosters. Patrick performs humane execution, teaching Ingrid the basics. (Way to go Ingrid! Not the most pleasant of tasks, but a useful one if you find yourself hungry and no one else is around to process your chicken.) Serge, Sean and I scald, pluck and eviscerate the birds. Serge walked Ingrid through the steps of evisceration, many details on the proper names of the bird's anatomy. We all got a great biology lesson as we worked. Arlene washed the birds and placed them in the tubs of ice water. My friend Stewart (Serge's wife) brought the lemons and olive oil for the hummus and plenty of vacuum sealer bags.
Everyone cleaned up and put away equipment while I prepared lunch of homemade hummus, flat bread, garden veggies, roasted eggplant and cheese and olives with a side of fried gizzards for the brave members of the group with really good teeth.
I vacuum-sealed the chickens and placed them in the fridge to chill a couple of days.
We will not roast these old roosters. We will boil them for soups. We will stew them for gumbo or make them into chicken enchiladas. Perhaps some chicken and dumplings some winter evening. Chicken a la king. Chicken curry and rice.
Once again, farm life with friends gives the opportunity for community to be expressed via legitimate worthwhile labor. Tiring labor. Stinky labor. Labor that produces food for our families along with lifelong memories.
I wished to go see a screening of the movie FRESH this evening. It is a film about the sustainable agriculture movement.
After a late Weston A Price meeting at another area farm last night and a hard day's work processing poultry today, I was just too tired to go to Lexington. Philip and Thomas went in my stead. I hope they take notes.
It gives me great joy to know that somehow or another, providence has placed us in a situation where we can live out the principles of the movie. What a miracle! Who would have imagined that we would be raising our meat, our veggies our fruits and our dairy on our own farm? Not too many years ago we were the family with the overflowing shopping cart in Sam's Club, shopping for the cheapest and biggest. I feel satisfied and grateful. And tired. The dining room is filled with baskets of clean laundry. We will fold it tomorrow as we make plum jam. But for now, to bed. The sustainable agriculture movement has been great for my sleep habits. Hit the pillow, out like a light!
Sunday, July 26, 2009
The Poetry of Potato
Ingrid dug up many potatoes on Friday as I baked birthday cake.
I felt left out.
Digging up potatoes is one of my favorite garden tasks.
Saturday I went out to the garden to weed and stayed much later to dig potatoes.
We are so grateful for a wonderful harvest of potatoes. I think we finally planted enough potatoes for our family to enjoy and to sell a few. Mounds of Yukon Gold potatoes line the rows.
The monster harvest (so far) this year are the potatoes and the onions.
I think I have to share with you a poem or two about potatoes.
First one by Pablo Neruda Oda a la Papa 1955
PAPA,
te laamas
papa y no patata,
no naciste castellana:
eres oscura
como
nuestra piel,
somos americanos,
papa,
somos indios.
Profunda
y suave eres,
pulpa pura, purisima
rosa blanc
enterrada,
floreces
alla adentro
en la tierra,
en tu lluviosa
tierra
originaria,
en las islas mojadas
de Chile tempestuoso,
en Chiloe marino,
en medio de la esmeralda que abre
su luz verde
sobre el austral oceano.
Papa,
materia
dulce,
almendra
de la tierra,
la madre
alli
no tuvo
metal muerto,
alli en la oscura
suavidad de las islas
no dispuso el cobre y sus volcanes
sumergidos,
ni la crueldad azul
del manganeso,
sino que son su mano,
como en un nido
en la humedad mas suave,
coloco tus redomas,
y cuando
el trueno
de la guerra
negra,
Espana
inquisidora,
negra como aguila de sepultura,
busco el oro salvaje
en la matriz
quemante de la araucania,
sus unas
codiciosas
fueron exterminadas,
sus capitanes
muertow, pero cuando a las piedras de Castilla
regresaron
los pobres capitanes derrotados
levantaron en las manos sangrientas
no una copa do oro,
sino la papa
de Chiloe marino.
Honrada eres
como
una mano
que trabaja en la tierra,
familiar
eres
como
una gallina,
compacta como un queso
que las tierra elabora
en sus ubres
nutricias,
enemiga del hambre,
en todas las naciones
se enterro su bandera
vencedora
y pronto alli,
en el frio o en la costa
quemada,
aparecio
tu flor
anonimo
enunciando la espesa
y suave natalidad de tus raices.
Universal delicia,
no esperabas
me canto,
porque eres sorda
y ciega
y enterrada.
Apenas
si hablas en el infierno
del aceite
o cantas
en las freiduras
de los puertos,
cerca de las guitarras,
silenciosa,
harina de la noche
subterranea,
tesoro interminable
de los pueblos.
If I were not a farmer I would translate the poem for you. I especially enjoyed several lines, such as:
Castilian you were not born,
you are dark
like
our skin,
we are americans,
potato,
we are indians.
Here is another:
Honored you are
like
a hand
that works with the earth,
familiar
you are
like
a hen,
compact like a cheese
crafted by the earth
in her nourishing
breast,
enemy of hunger
in each of the nations
she buries her victorious
flag
and soon there,
in the cold or in burning
coast,
her anonymous flower
appears,
annunciation
of the thick and creamy
natality of her roots.
There is plenty more good stuff in this poem, as with most of Neruda's poetry! Many years since poetry translation classes, so bear with my poor efforts!
Potatoes. Boiled, creamed, salted, mashed, fried, hashed, vinegared and casseroled. We thank you!
I felt left out.
Digging up potatoes is one of my favorite garden tasks.
Saturday I went out to the garden to weed and stayed much later to dig potatoes.
We are so grateful for a wonderful harvest of potatoes. I think we finally planted enough potatoes for our family to enjoy and to sell a few. Mounds of Yukon Gold potatoes line the rows.
The monster harvest (so far) this year are the potatoes and the onions.
I think I have to share with you a poem or two about potatoes.
First one by Pablo Neruda Oda a la Papa 1955
PAPA,
te laamas
papa y no patata,
no naciste castellana:
eres oscura
como
nuestra piel,
somos americanos,
papa,
somos indios.
Profunda
y suave eres,
pulpa pura, purisima
rosa blanc
enterrada,
floreces
alla adentro
en la tierra,
en tu lluviosa
tierra
originaria,
en las islas mojadas
de Chile tempestuoso,
en Chiloe marino,
en medio de la esmeralda que abre
su luz verde
sobre el austral oceano.
Papa,
materia
dulce,
almendra
de la tierra,
la madre
alli
no tuvo
metal muerto,
alli en la oscura
suavidad de las islas
no dispuso el cobre y sus volcanes
sumergidos,
ni la crueldad azul
del manganeso,
sino que son su mano,
como en un nido
en la humedad mas suave,
coloco tus redomas,
y cuando
el trueno
de la guerra
negra,
Espana
inquisidora,
negra como aguila de sepultura,
busco el oro salvaje
en la matriz
quemante de la araucania,
sus unas
codiciosas
fueron exterminadas,
sus capitanes
muertow, pero cuando a las piedras de Castilla
regresaron
los pobres capitanes derrotados
levantaron en las manos sangrientas
no una copa do oro,
sino la papa
de Chiloe marino.
Honrada eres
como
una mano
que trabaja en la tierra,
familiar
eres
como
una gallina,
compacta como un queso
que las tierra elabora
en sus ubres
nutricias,
enemiga del hambre,
en todas las naciones
se enterro su bandera
vencedora
y pronto alli,
en el frio o en la costa
quemada,
aparecio
tu flor
anonimo
enunciando la espesa
y suave natalidad de tus raices.
Universal delicia,
no esperabas
me canto,
porque eres sorda
y ciega
y enterrada.
Apenas
si hablas en el infierno
del aceite
o cantas
en las freiduras
de los puertos,
cerca de las guitarras,
silenciosa,
harina de la noche
subterranea,
tesoro interminable
de los pueblos.
If I were not a farmer I would translate the poem for you. I especially enjoyed several lines, such as:
Castilian you were not born,
you are dark
like
our skin,
we are americans,
potato,
we are indians.
Here is another:
Honored you are
like
a hand
that works with the earth,
familiar
you are
like
a hen,
compact like a cheese
crafted by the earth
in her nourishing
breast,
enemy of hunger
in each of the nations
she buries her victorious
flag
and soon there,
in the cold or in burning
coast,
her anonymous flower
appears,
annunciation
of the thick and creamy
natality of her roots.
There is plenty more good stuff in this poem, as with most of Neruda's poetry! Many years since poetry translation classes, so bear with my poor efforts!
Potatoes. Boiled, creamed, salted, mashed, fried, hashed, vinegared and casseroled. We thank you!
Friday, July 24, 2009
My love is like a red red rose...
We celebrated Rose's 9th birthday today. After milking Coco and overseeing some of the other chores, Rose and I headed into town for our yearly birthday breakfast date. We used to go to IHOP for breakfast, mainly because the kids liked the idea of the giant monster icecream sundae they would get for free for their birthday. Awhile back the kids would comment that the pancakes tasted kind of chemically and that all that ice cream for breakfast made them sick.
Now they enjoy finding a local, family-owned breakfast place. No free ice cream sundae, but the food is better and we feel much better knowing our birthday dollars are supporting a family in the area.
Thelma's Chicken and Waffles is the place in vogue with the kids right now.
YUMMY! I know, I know, it is white flour, not a grain of whole wheat in sight. But it is a birthday, for goodness' sake. I need to haul hay after such a food-filled day. If you feel like you need a waffle, I hope you will try Thelma's. On Orange in Roanoke, just past Williamson Road.
Rose and I had such a nice time chatting. I asked her what she thinks she learned this year. Math stood out to her. She conquered addition and subtraction of 3, 4 and 5 digit numbers. She worked on fractions. She began multiplication. She also started to write cursive. She reads voraciously and couldn't remember what book was her favorite.
Rose has made great strides with piano lessons this past year, too. It gives me great joy to listen to her play the piano. She doesn't just go practice because she must, she plays the piano most every time she walks past it. If she is sad she plays. Sometimes when she is mad she plays. I am blessed to enjoy her music.
Rose has been learning to cook. She was thrilled when I told her over breakfast that now she is nine, she is old enough to take on a week of dishes duty.
Well, she wasn't exactly thrilled. But probably deep down inside she must be thrilled to know that she is old enough to take on the responsibility of the kitchen clean up one week a month.
Rose planted cucumbers in her garden this year. She loves to pick them and eat them right in the garden.
Rose has several friends this year. Emily is a long term friend who is like a cousin. They have know each other since baby days. Emily lives in North Carolina, but visits often. Sofie lives in Fincastle on a farm and is homeschooled. Maddie has a Grandma who lives down the road. Anita lives down the road. Madeline lives in town and goes to our church. Emma is homeschooled and lives down the street from the farmer's market. Rose is blessed with very sweet friends.
I forgot to mention that Rose has learned to milk a goat this year. Actually she tells me she learned when she was seven, but now she is helping to milk Nita most days.
Rose has very good taste. She requested blackberry pound cake for her birthday cake with homemade custard vanilla ice cream. She also requested fried chicken for her birthday supper. We have been eating all day long! We were so grateful that Ingrid picked potatoes today while I made cake and ice cream. She picked piles and piles of potatoes. Of course we had to fry some to go with all the fried chicken and fried eggplant. As Rose mentioned to our friend Julie, we don't fry stuff very often, but when we do, we try to go all out.
If you can get a good locally grown free-range chicken, I recommend you soak it in buttermilk or whey along with some sea salt and garlic and any other herb you might enjoy. Thyme might be a good choice. Then drench in some freshly milled whole wheat flour seasoned with garlic and salt. Fry in lard. The trick to crispy french fries to go along with that chicken is to fry them twice. First fry them until they are barely cooked through. Drain and fry them one more time in hot grease. They should come out crispy and not at all greasy. A bit of work, but worth it on a birthday.
No baking for farmer's market for us today. First Friday off all season. I am so happy to celebrate Rose's birthday.
Dear sweet Rose, slightly spicy to keep things interesting. I enjoy spending time with you. I love talking with you. I enjoy hanging out with you, in the garden, in the kitchen, running around town taking care of business, cuddled in bed with a book. You were precious to me when you were a teeny little rose bud of a baby. You were precious to me as you learned to toddle around. You were precious to me as you perservered, learning to ride a bike, you were precious to me as you sang in church, you were precious to me when you wrote your "I'm sorry" note. You are precious to me as you stretch and grow and run and learn. Beautiful, lovely Rose. Intelligent, creative. I love seeing you become even more of you as each year comes and goes.
You are my gift!
But please, don't let me have any more cake and ice cream til we haul hay again, okay?
Now they enjoy finding a local, family-owned breakfast place. No free ice cream sundae, but the food is better and we feel much better knowing our birthday dollars are supporting a family in the area.
Thelma's Chicken and Waffles is the place in vogue with the kids right now.
YUMMY! I know, I know, it is white flour, not a grain of whole wheat in sight. But it is a birthday, for goodness' sake. I need to haul hay after such a food-filled day. If you feel like you need a waffle, I hope you will try Thelma's. On Orange in Roanoke, just past Williamson Road.
Rose and I had such a nice time chatting. I asked her what she thinks she learned this year. Math stood out to her. She conquered addition and subtraction of 3, 4 and 5 digit numbers. She worked on fractions. She began multiplication. She also started to write cursive. She reads voraciously and couldn't remember what book was her favorite.
Rose has made great strides with piano lessons this past year, too. It gives me great joy to listen to her play the piano. She doesn't just go practice because she must, she plays the piano most every time she walks past it. If she is sad she plays. Sometimes when she is mad she plays. I am blessed to enjoy her music.
Rose has been learning to cook. She was thrilled when I told her over breakfast that now she is nine, she is old enough to take on a week of dishes duty.
Well, she wasn't exactly thrilled. But probably deep down inside she must be thrilled to know that she is old enough to take on the responsibility of the kitchen clean up one week a month.
Rose planted cucumbers in her garden this year. She loves to pick them and eat them right in the garden.
Rose has several friends this year. Emily is a long term friend who is like a cousin. They have know each other since baby days. Emily lives in North Carolina, but visits often. Sofie lives in Fincastle on a farm and is homeschooled. Maddie has a Grandma who lives down the road. Anita lives down the road. Madeline lives in town and goes to our church. Emma is homeschooled and lives down the street from the farmer's market. Rose is blessed with very sweet friends.
I forgot to mention that Rose has learned to milk a goat this year. Actually she tells me she learned when she was seven, but now she is helping to milk Nita most days.
Rose has very good taste. She requested blackberry pound cake for her birthday cake with homemade custard vanilla ice cream. She also requested fried chicken for her birthday supper. We have been eating all day long! We were so grateful that Ingrid picked potatoes today while I made cake and ice cream. She picked piles and piles of potatoes. Of course we had to fry some to go with all the fried chicken and fried eggplant. As Rose mentioned to our friend Julie, we don't fry stuff very often, but when we do, we try to go all out.
If you can get a good locally grown free-range chicken, I recommend you soak it in buttermilk or whey along with some sea salt and garlic and any other herb you might enjoy. Thyme might be a good choice. Then drench in some freshly milled whole wheat flour seasoned with garlic and salt. Fry in lard. The trick to crispy french fries to go along with that chicken is to fry them twice. First fry them until they are barely cooked through. Drain and fry them one more time in hot grease. They should come out crispy and not at all greasy. A bit of work, but worth it on a birthday.
No baking for farmer's market for us today. First Friday off all season. I am so happy to celebrate Rose's birthday.
Dear sweet Rose, slightly spicy to keep things interesting. I enjoy spending time with you. I love talking with you. I enjoy hanging out with you, in the garden, in the kitchen, running around town taking care of business, cuddled in bed with a book. You were precious to me when you were a teeny little rose bud of a baby. You were precious to me as you learned to toddle around. You were precious to me as you perservered, learning to ride a bike, you were precious to me as you sang in church, you were precious to me when you wrote your "I'm sorry" note. You are precious to me as you stretch and grow and run and learn. Beautiful, lovely Rose. Intelligent, creative. I love seeing you become even more of you as each year comes and goes.
You are my gift!
But please, don't let me have any more cake and ice cream til we haul hay again, okay?
Thursday, July 23, 2009
Welcome New Friends!
My friend Julie from Charlotte got in this afternoon. Tagging along were her children Alan, Emily and two new friends, foster kids from Ethiopia, Eyayu and Tsegaw. Eyayu and Tsegaw are with the Webbs for the summer and we are praying that soon they will have a forever family. Those fellows are 10 years old and have already found a place in our heart. Right now Patrick is playing with them out in the yard. I think the play involves running, laughing and pointing out objects to learn the Amharic and English words. I do believe that Patrick has the gift of languages.
We got to eat injera (a sourdough flat bread) with a spicy lentil stew. Yum.
Smiles on the farm come in so many flavors. I love it!
We got to eat injera (a sourdough flat bread) with a spicy lentil stew. Yum.
Smiles on the farm come in so many flavors. I love it!
Blackberry (The Jam, Not the Phone Thingy)
We made the first little pot of jam yesterday afternoon.
Some friends brought over a bowl of blackberries. We ate a few. The berries looked up at me and begged to be made into jam. What else could I do but comply?
Blackberries are ripe and growing wild all over the place for the next week or two. I wish everyone would go out and pick at least a quart or two to make some jam. It would make them so pleased and satisfied.
Here is the way I make blackberry jam, courtesy of one of my most old-fashioned cookbooks:
Place rinsed berries in a pan. Mash with a potato masher. Bring to a boil. Boil til half the liquid has evaporated. Add 2/3 cup sugar (I prefer to use an organic evaporated cane juice) to each cup of ripe berries. Boil, stirring constantly until the jam will coat the back of a spoon. Pour into sterilized jelly jars and top with a lid if you are going to eat right away (as in the next few weeks) or seal with melted paraffin if you plan on keeping the jam for months.
Took me less than half and hour. Made the children very happy. Guess we will try to pick more berries and make more jam.
BTW, I prefer to leave the seeds in the jam. It is blackberry, for goodness' sake.
AND, might I suggest to my readers, if anyone out there does plan on picking wild berries, and I hope you will, be sure to wear long pants, long sleeves and take a nice soapy shower when you get back home. Poison Ivy, ticks and chiggers love berry patches.
Thank you God for blackberry jam.
Some friends brought over a bowl of blackberries. We ate a few. The berries looked up at me and begged to be made into jam. What else could I do but comply?
Blackberries are ripe and growing wild all over the place for the next week or two. I wish everyone would go out and pick at least a quart or two to make some jam. It would make them so pleased and satisfied.
Here is the way I make blackberry jam, courtesy of one of my most old-fashioned cookbooks:
Place rinsed berries in a pan. Mash with a potato masher. Bring to a boil. Boil til half the liquid has evaporated. Add 2/3 cup sugar (I prefer to use an organic evaporated cane juice) to each cup of ripe berries. Boil, stirring constantly until the jam will coat the back of a spoon. Pour into sterilized jelly jars and top with a lid if you are going to eat right away (as in the next few weeks) or seal with melted paraffin if you plan on keeping the jam for months.
Took me less than half and hour. Made the children very happy. Guess we will try to pick more berries and make more jam.
BTW, I prefer to leave the seeds in the jam. It is blackberry, for goodness' sake.
AND, might I suggest to my readers, if anyone out there does plan on picking wild berries, and I hope you will, be sure to wear long pants, long sleeves and take a nice soapy shower when you get back home. Poison Ivy, ticks and chiggers love berry patches.
Thank you God for blackberry jam.
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
Misty mornings
Our weather reporter friend, Kevin Myatt, writes that we are experiencing the coolest July in years.
I love it.
We have to sleep with a blanket. Sometimes a sweater is necessary when heading out to milk. The mist hangs heavily all throughout the farm. Sometimes so heavily that sounds of birds and sheep and chickens are muted.
This year is a very good year for berries. Since it is a bit cooler I think we should try to harvest more wild berries and make some jam. We especially like to freeze our harvest. We rinse the berries, spread them on a cookie sheet and let them freeze, then transfer into a container to put into the freezer. Perfect for later enjoyment in yogurt, baked in tarts, popped in mouth like candy.
These days I am doing lots of praying while I work. Several people in my life are struggling with very serious issues.
My dear friend Becky's daughter Brooke is fighting a very violent battle with cancer. She is 21 years old.
Some other friends are struggling with trying to keep marriages from falling apart. Single mom friends are struggling to make ends meet. Mental health issues overwhelm another couple of friends.
So I milk the cow and pray. Weed the garden and pray. Eat and pray. Walk the fields and pray.
A friend expressed confusion regarding the concept of prayer. What's the point? Since it seems that God is going to do what he is going to do, why bother?
I pray because I can not NOT pray. I ask. I plead. I beg. I cry. I express frustration and fear and concern and regret.
I wait.
Sometimes the answers are so brilliant, so clear, so immediate, so pleasing, I just know that God heard my prayer and I am pleased that he answered the way I wanted.
Sometimes there is silence. Or an answer I don't like at all. Reading the Psalms helps me to see that David liked to pray as well, and even when God was silent and didn't answer in the way he wished and hoped, the prayer was an outlet. A way to maintain relationship. An expression of faith and hope. David even expressed anger with God, lik in Psalm 22, "My God, my God, why have you forsaken me? Why are you so far from saving me, so far from the words of my groaning? O my God, I cry out by day, but you do not answer, by night and am not silent."
What I see over and over in the Psalms is a transformation. As the complaints and fears and cries of desperation roll out of the heart, peace finds a way to come in. "We wait in hope for the LORD; he is our help and our shield. In him our hearts rejoice, for we trust in his holy name. May your unfailing love rest upon us, O LORD, even as we put our hope in you." Psalm 33
I don't understand prayer. I know it doesn't always make sense and yet... I will head out to milk Coco and pick berries and make pickles and will pray. Pray for Brooke to be healed. For Becky to be comforted in this really hard race. For my friends to find forgiveness, restoration and redemption in their marriage, for the single moms to have enough money to pay the bills and get the groceries, for the homeless to find a home, for grace to cover the rough spots, for peace to rule in my heart.
I love it.
We have to sleep with a blanket. Sometimes a sweater is necessary when heading out to milk. The mist hangs heavily all throughout the farm. Sometimes so heavily that sounds of birds and sheep and chickens are muted.
This year is a very good year for berries. Since it is a bit cooler I think we should try to harvest more wild berries and make some jam. We especially like to freeze our harvest. We rinse the berries, spread them on a cookie sheet and let them freeze, then transfer into a container to put into the freezer. Perfect for later enjoyment in yogurt, baked in tarts, popped in mouth like candy.
These days I am doing lots of praying while I work. Several people in my life are struggling with very serious issues.
My dear friend Becky's daughter Brooke is fighting a very violent battle with cancer. She is 21 years old.
Some other friends are struggling with trying to keep marriages from falling apart. Single mom friends are struggling to make ends meet. Mental health issues overwhelm another couple of friends.
So I milk the cow and pray. Weed the garden and pray. Eat and pray. Walk the fields and pray.
A friend expressed confusion regarding the concept of prayer. What's the point? Since it seems that God is going to do what he is going to do, why bother?
I pray because I can not NOT pray. I ask. I plead. I beg. I cry. I express frustration and fear and concern and regret.
I wait.
Sometimes the answers are so brilliant, so clear, so immediate, so pleasing, I just know that God heard my prayer and I am pleased that he answered the way I wanted.
Sometimes there is silence. Or an answer I don't like at all. Reading the Psalms helps me to see that David liked to pray as well, and even when God was silent and didn't answer in the way he wished and hoped, the prayer was an outlet. A way to maintain relationship. An expression of faith and hope. David even expressed anger with God, lik in Psalm 22, "My God, my God, why have you forsaken me? Why are you so far from saving me, so far from the words of my groaning? O my God, I cry out by day, but you do not answer, by night and am not silent."
What I see over and over in the Psalms is a transformation. As the complaints and fears and cries of desperation roll out of the heart, peace finds a way to come in. "We wait in hope for the LORD; he is our help and our shield. In him our hearts rejoice, for we trust in his holy name. May your unfailing love rest upon us, O LORD, even as we put our hope in you." Psalm 33
I don't understand prayer. I know it doesn't always make sense and yet... I will head out to milk Coco and pick berries and make pickles and will pray. Pray for Brooke to be healed. For Becky to be comforted in this really hard race. For my friends to find forgiveness, restoration and redemption in their marriage, for the single moms to have enough money to pay the bills and get the groceries, for the homeless to find a home, for grace to cover the rough spots, for peace to rule in my heart.
Monday, July 20, 2009
Spaghetti Squash
Rolling thunder woke me up this morning. Heavy rain and dark cloudy skies put me back to sleep. Cracking lightning and more booming thunder woke me up again and I luxuriated under covers, cozily counting seconds between flash and crash. By the time I got up and had breakfast and started the laundry the storm was over.
I love living in the valley. Storms are one of my favorite things and we have some wonderful thunderstorms.
Ingrid helped us with barn clean up today. A hose leaked in one section and we had to dig out a very mucky area. Waterlogged sawdust, straw and manure is very heavy. I am thankful for such great exercise.
All that exercise makes farm food taste absolutely delicious. We had sandwiches with sauteed veggies for a late lunch. Supper came around before you know it. I roasted some of the first spaghetti squash. Mmmmm.
I love spaghetti squash.
So simple. Later on in the season we will top it with fresh marinara from garden tomatoes. Maybe some curried vegetables. But for now, I want my spaghetti squash pure and unadulterated. Cut in half, scrape out the seeds. Place cut side down on cookie sheet. Roast at 350-400 degrees until the shell is soft. Scoop out tender strands, dollop with butter and a little sea salt. Yum. The green beans and the zucchini and yellow squash with herbs were good, but the star of my dinner plate tonight was the first spaghetti squash. I hope you know someone growing some who will share.
PS the little chicks and the guinea keets were moved from the breakfast room to the barn. I won't miss them. Very much. It is almost time to order turkey poults. Hope to find another little pig or two.
I love living in the valley. Storms are one of my favorite things and we have some wonderful thunderstorms.
Ingrid helped us with barn clean up today. A hose leaked in one section and we had to dig out a very mucky area. Waterlogged sawdust, straw and manure is very heavy. I am thankful for such great exercise.
All that exercise makes farm food taste absolutely delicious. We had sandwiches with sauteed veggies for a late lunch. Supper came around before you know it. I roasted some of the first spaghetti squash. Mmmmm.
I love spaghetti squash.
So simple. Later on in the season we will top it with fresh marinara from garden tomatoes. Maybe some curried vegetables. But for now, I want my spaghetti squash pure and unadulterated. Cut in half, scrape out the seeds. Place cut side down on cookie sheet. Roast at 350-400 degrees until the shell is soft. Scoop out tender strands, dollop with butter and a little sea salt. Yum. The green beans and the zucchini and yellow squash with herbs were good, but the star of my dinner plate tonight was the first spaghetti squash. I hope you know someone growing some who will share.
PS the little chicks and the guinea keets were moved from the breakfast room to the barn. I won't miss them. Very much. It is almost time to order turkey poults. Hope to find another little pig or two.
Sunday, July 19, 2009
Summer '09, So Far So Good
Cool evenings. Moist air, sweet with dew and the scent of some flower or tree somewhere, hanging in the window.
Braids and braids of onions decorating the screened-in part of the deck, hanging to dry. Beautiful.
Pond is full. Last year it was not.
Last year we were canning green beans at this time. This year the first batch was flooded and rotted. Coco got in the garden and ate the tops out of the survivors. We are getting enough beans to eat, not enough to can. Hopefully in August and September.
Baking bread for two farmer's markets has been a challenge. I am baking up to 75 loaves of different breads, 50+ pizza crusts, plus pound cakes, brownie and pancake mixes and other assorted things every Friday. It is very hard work and I am tired of the crazy long hours. HOWEVER, the bakery is providing needed income for farm expenses like feed and hay making and we are so very grateful to all the people who choose to buy our freshly milled whole wheat and spelt products.
Baking for the markets has taken my focus off the farm a bit more than I wish. The garden is suffering as a result. My plans to expand the garden and the bakery at the same time were overly ambitious. We are lucky that we are getting any produce at all. It is not really luck, it is the providential provision of volunteers in the form of very kind friends who like to help me and the kids work.
This summer it is more evident than ever that we can not do life on our own. It requires friends, all of us helping each other. Sometimes I am needy. Sometimes my friends are needy. We need each other.
Frequent rains make parasite management much more pressing this summer than other summers. We are learning that we do not have all the answers and that certain ideals look great on paper but don't necessarily work in real life.
Free-range chickens have obliterated my herb gardens. But boy-howdy, those yolks sure are dark orange!
We usually deep mulch the garden with hay. Did not have hay or straw to do so this year. The difference is phenomenal and horrible. Deep mulch makes potato picking pleasurable and weed prevention manageable. Will make that a priority next season.
Guinea hens are a noisy nuisance but this summer the tick population is virtually gone. Guess we won't kill those obnoxious squawkers.
Due to the prolific crop of golden turnips we have had the opportunity to try many recipes. We are convinced that the only way to eat those turnips is to fry them in butter with garlic and sea salt til they are golden brown. I like turnips any old way, but the rest of the family and even other people's kids will eat them when cooked that way. PLEASE don't give up on turnips til you fry them in butter and sea salt!
More summer to go. Wonder what the rest of the season has to offer? Looks like the plums are about ripe. Will we make all jam or will we try our hand at home grown damson plum wine? There are very few apples and figs, thanks to the hard freezes. Pears look promising. New variety of butternut squash appears to be producing prolifically. I hope the squash will mature before the bugs kill the plants. Will we get great pumpkins this year? A new adventure awaits every week.
"There is a time for everything, and a season for every activity under heaven." Ecclesiastes 3:1
Braids and braids of onions decorating the screened-in part of the deck, hanging to dry. Beautiful.
Pond is full. Last year it was not.
Last year we were canning green beans at this time. This year the first batch was flooded and rotted. Coco got in the garden and ate the tops out of the survivors. We are getting enough beans to eat, not enough to can. Hopefully in August and September.
Baking bread for two farmer's markets has been a challenge. I am baking up to 75 loaves of different breads, 50+ pizza crusts, plus pound cakes, brownie and pancake mixes and other assorted things every Friday. It is very hard work and I am tired of the crazy long hours. HOWEVER, the bakery is providing needed income for farm expenses like feed and hay making and we are so very grateful to all the people who choose to buy our freshly milled whole wheat and spelt products.
Baking for the markets has taken my focus off the farm a bit more than I wish. The garden is suffering as a result. My plans to expand the garden and the bakery at the same time were overly ambitious. We are lucky that we are getting any produce at all. It is not really luck, it is the providential provision of volunteers in the form of very kind friends who like to help me and the kids work.
This summer it is more evident than ever that we can not do life on our own. It requires friends, all of us helping each other. Sometimes I am needy. Sometimes my friends are needy. We need each other.
Frequent rains make parasite management much more pressing this summer than other summers. We are learning that we do not have all the answers and that certain ideals look great on paper but don't necessarily work in real life.
Free-range chickens have obliterated my herb gardens. But boy-howdy, those yolks sure are dark orange!
We usually deep mulch the garden with hay. Did not have hay or straw to do so this year. The difference is phenomenal and horrible. Deep mulch makes potato picking pleasurable and weed prevention manageable. Will make that a priority next season.
Guinea hens are a noisy nuisance but this summer the tick population is virtually gone. Guess we won't kill those obnoxious squawkers.
Due to the prolific crop of golden turnips we have had the opportunity to try many recipes. We are convinced that the only way to eat those turnips is to fry them in butter with garlic and sea salt til they are golden brown. I like turnips any old way, but the rest of the family and even other people's kids will eat them when cooked that way. PLEASE don't give up on turnips til you fry them in butter and sea salt!
More summer to go. Wonder what the rest of the season has to offer? Looks like the plums are about ripe. Will we make all jam or will we try our hand at home grown damson plum wine? There are very few apples and figs, thanks to the hard freezes. Pears look promising. New variety of butternut squash appears to be producing prolifically. I hope the squash will mature before the bugs kill the plants. Will we get great pumpkins this year? A new adventure awaits every week.
"There is a time for everything, and a season for every activity under heaven." Ecclesiastes 3:1
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