Glitz and Glam

Ah yes, the glamorous life of a farmer.  The bruises, bumps, scrapes, cuts, burns, scabs, broken fingernails... the jeans with piggie nose-prints that you don't bother washing because it's almost the weekend and you know you'll be wearing them ALL WEEKEND ANYWAY!

I cut my fingernails short last night, because we've started actually being able to get our hands in the dirt again, and what's the point of having nice nails if you're just going to stick them in mud?  Then, I was trying to write a blog post for our Ham Sweet Farm page after dinner last night [which was at 10 pm, btw], and I fell asleep... mid-sentence... sitting on the couch... TWICE.  "Just go to bed.  You can finish that tomorrow," said C.  Story of my life.  So many things that end up getting finished, tomorrow.  But our first priority is always the animals, so little side projects like blogging, gardening, heck, even doing the dishes, have to wait sometimes.  If we need to build a new fence for the pigs, or set up a new brooder for chicks, or buy and load and stack hay... it just has to be done.

Don't get me wrong, this isn't a Woe Is Me post.  I enjoy it.  It's satisfying, relaxing, rewarding.  But then I see a picture of myself, communing with all my hens, wearing a glorified Canadian Tuxedo...

I mean, seriously, what is that??  Somewhere, my favorite Little Black Dress is weeping right now.  But there is a certain solace in femininity that I find here on the farm.  All of these animals are my babies, and the earth they tread upon supports us all.  This year we have semi-grand plans for a vegetable garden, or maybe even two.  We're running a small Meat CSA, with animals raised naturally by us and two of our local farmer friends.  We're improving the land upon which we live.  We're making plans for next year, 5 years from now, 10 years from now...  and I still get to dress up every now and then.   

Genesis

This hog was born into a confinement operation.  Until today, he has never set foot outside the barn into which he was born.  He has never lived on anything other than slatted floors, has never seen light other than the dim florescent bulbs lining the barn aisles or the sunlight peeking through vented fans in the walls.  He's never seen snow, or straw.  Until today.

On this snowy morning, we welcomed a new boar to Ham Sweet Farm, and with it, we embark on a new project.  Last year we raised "feeder pigs," otherwise known as weaned pigs, and decided to keep the lone female to breed.  If all goes well, we should be expecting piggies on the ground by early June.

We have  a little American Guinea Hog boar already, but quite frankly, he is so much smaller than our gilt Gnocchi we don't think he can, well, err... get any business done with her.  Not to mention that when she's in heat, she's a raging, frothing-at-the-mouth monster.  Our little boar, The Godfather, is abjectly terrified of her.  Can't say I blame him… she's more aggressive with us when she's in heat as well.

The gestation for pigs is 3 months, 3 weeks and 3 days, putting us right at the start of summer for farrowing [birthing].  Perfect.  Christian and I decided that the best thing for everyone involved was to have her bred with a boar more her size.  But where does one find a boar?

We contemplated taking her to a few other farms for a "conjugal visit," A.I. [articificial insemination, test tube babies], waiting to see if The Godfather would change his mind and step up to the task… we contacted a farmer friend of ours about it, and he said he had a boar the farm could no longer use.  In the livestock world, being born a male is a great gig for a very select few.  But for the most part, males are either raised for meat or are essentially a waste product [think dairy industry or all the roosters people are constantly trying to re-home].  Boars, in other words, are a dime a dozen.  We asked our friend how much he would be willing to sell the boar for, and he told us that the going rate for a hog of his size "at market" was about $90.  Keep in mind, we're taking about a year-and-a-half-old hog who weighs 450 pounds or so.  We couldn't turn that down.

Side note:  Real Life now includes earnest discussions concerning tracking the heat cycles of our female pigs and goats, and excitement over good lookin' babydaddies for the aforementioned.  Our weekends are chock full of excitement!

Yesterday, I got home from work and Christian arrived home shortly thereafter.  I realized once we came in from chores after dark, I had just thrown my work clothes on over what I had worn to work that morning.  Nothing like building a pig hut in your favorite, and probably most expensive, pair of jeans!  Thankful for Carhartt weather these days.  It was warmer yesterday than it has been in quite some time, topping out at a balmy 28 degrees or so.  We prepped as much for our new arrival as time allowed before dusk came calling and it was time to take care of everyone else for the night.

When we woke up this morning, predicted snowfall of up to 8 inches made us think the delivery wasn't happening.  We did morning chores, and were inside about to make hot chocolate when Christian got the text— "The boar is on his way!  See you in a half hour!"  We threw our bibs back on and raced outside to put finishing touches on the honeymoon pigpen.  Just as we were finishing up with the pen and plowing out the driveway, a truck and trailer pulled in.

We opened up the trailer and he just stared out of it, unsure of what to do.  It took some coaxing but finally he jumped down from the trailer and sauntered into the pen we built to hold him and his new girlfriend.

We've been tracking her cycles for the past few months, and know she should be "coming in" tomorrow.  So today they're mostly flirting a lot, chasing each other around, and whispering sweet nothings to one another.  It's pretty cute.

So far, the new guy is doing just fine.  Cavatelli, Gnocchi's brother and lifelong pasturemate, is quite jealous of their new separation, so we may have more trouble with him in the next few days than anything else.  The boar has never seen or heard any of what he's experiencing today, so it's all new.  We have three strands of hot electric wire, laced with bright orange tape so he can see it, to keep him in.  He seems calm and inquisitive, shy, nervous.  Christian and I are both looking forward to watching him explore his new world.

 Also, his tongue sticks out a lot.  It's ridiculously cute...

Biting the Bullet

We've been lost in a whirlwind of activity as summer accelerated from the muggy days of August into September and October when everything is coming into harvest.  Jars upon jars of tomatoes are tucked away in our cellar with apple butter, pickles, and alcohol infusions.  Right now we have an entire cooler of the last of the vegetables from our garden that hung on until our first hard frost.  We took our first animals to slaughter a few weeks ago— 10 beautiful heavy ducks.

The schedule of a farmer is different than that of the modern person who considers "summer" to be over after Labor Day.  If tomatoes are still on the vine, I'd say it's still summer.  And only in autumn are meat animals typically ready for harvest.  The ducks were our first, but within the month we will also take 10 Thanksgiving turkeys and 20 chickens for processing as well.

But the really big one is coming up in just a few days.  We are taking two of our pigs to a local slaughterhouse, dropping them off Wednesday night and returning Thursday morning to get a tour of the place and see the kill.  I've been saying goodbye in some ways for weeks... extra treats, extra straw in their shelter, even just lingering near them, watching them play and root around and be themselves.  It is most definitely a mourning process along with the celebration of their life, the sacrifice they make to put food on your
table.

Just before our boar Melvin was slated to go to the slaughterhouse, he succumbed to a week of brutal heat, with temperatures over 100 degrees during the day hardly cooling down at night.  In some ways, it was terrible to have to make the decision to put him down at home.  In others, it was a relief not to have to load him up onto a trailer and take him to a strange place for the last day of his life.  He laid down and it was over.  I took a shot of bourbon first.  I cried.  A somber mood settled over the farmstead.  It was over.

Hopefully, on Wednesday we will load up two of our pigs.  Jack Sparrow and Rigatoni.  They are accustomed to the trailer and we've been feeding them and giving treats on it so they're not afraid of it.  The best you can do as a caretaker of any animals is set them up for success, and do as much as possible to ensure they're calm.  We've done our best and can only hope that everything goes the way it should over the course of the next few days.  I struggle with the emotions of it all, and quite frankly, sometimes I don't do well with it.  I always cry.  It's exhausting but I wouldn't have it any other way.

FarmHer

I've been neglecting this blog on and off for years now, but it's still an anchoring force in my life. The two parts of me that many people have trouble reconciling... until recently, people only knew one half or the other.  Now we live on the Farmstead, and I'm surrounded by many pairs of high heels AND muck boots.  Something about it just works.

So it was with great excitement that I learned of this fledgling project, in an article written by Modern Farmer: Photographing the Female Face of Farming.

If you like the project, support it and its creator by visiting the page, FarmHer.com and liking the Facebook page.  And give love to Farmers and FarmHers alike...

This Little Piggy...

Last night we had our first on-farm kill... we had planned to take our young boar, Melvin, up to the processor today.  In this extreme heat wave we've been under, he was very stressed— we worried what effect the trailer ride and overnight in a strange facility would have.  We didn't want to lose the meat, nor did we want him to suffer... so C and I waited for him to lay down last night as the evening cooled, and lured the other pigs away with grain, then took the shot.

In many ways, but particularly when it comes to things of this matter, I feel so lucky to have C as my partner.  Even the most merciful of shots is so difficult for me.  C took the perfect shot and Melvin was gone instantly.  The other pigs calmly eating on the other side of their shelter didn't notice a thing, not even the involuntary muscle spasms that accompany death [just not in the movies].  I cried and put my hand on his still-warm cheek, said thank you, what a good boy you were.

We carried him out of the pen and hoisted him on the tractor to bleed him out.  In these moments I always remember the words of Temple Grandin.  "It was here; now it's meat.  Where did it go?"  The Melvin we knew and took care of was gone, and now we had our upcoming pig roast to look forward to.  The chickens and dogs got some of the odd bits, and everything else went into the compost.  We hosed him inside and out, both cleaning and cooling the carcass.  For now, Melvin rests in our refrigerator.  This weekend, we will celebrate with friends his life and the land that sustains us.

His boisterous spirit and silly straw-burrowing will be missed on the farm, but we will eat him so that one less pig is raised in a confinement operation for a miserable dark 6 months of "life."  If you think I did it without the help of a shot of bourbon you'd be sorely mistaken.

Many people find it strange that we name the animals we intend to eat.  But knowing the animal is about more than the name— even without one we would find some moniker by which to talk about that once-living piece of pork versus the other four that we woke up this morning to feed.  In the end, we should all be so lucky as to spend our last day wallowing in silky black mud, playing in straw and eating cold melon, the dappled sun shining through trees.

Grrls Meat Camp in the news

Grrls Meat Camp has been getting some great press of late.  I'm incredibly honored to be a part of it, as well as to be included in this article.

Women Breaking Down Hogs, Beef and the 'Old Boy Network' in Kentucky Butchering Camps

If you're interested in attending one of these workshops, well, you're in luck!  There's one coming up.  I can't make it, but I'm thinking about crashing the after party/BBQ.

Grrls Meat Camp Workshop in Kentucky, April 12-14

The Meat You Eat

Butchering animals is a grave thing.

For me, it always starts joyously— the prospect of beautiful fresh meat, raised by a local farmer/friend, pastured and fed a top-notch diet of grain and fresh veggies.

As you pull the door to the walk-in cooler open, the unmistakeable scent of fresh meat wafts out, curling around your senses in all its minerality and rawness.  Try though you might, your animalistic nature is overjoyed at the prospect of this feast.

The pig is neatly tucked into large plastic bags— one side on the left of the cooler, one side on the right, and the head sitting there, locked in a macabre grin with ears splaying out playfully, eyes closed as if the pig's last moments were spent in laughter.  You and your partner make sure you have space cleared for it in the back of the car, and then return to hoist the first side.

The front leg is so heavy, with that big shoulder and rib cage, that you can't even lift it.  You switch places, picking up the back leg instead.  The plastic sighs and stretches, and you wrap your hands around the ham as well as you can, staggering out into the light and towards the car.  It fully spans the length of your car from rear door hatch to drivers' seat.  You return for the second side, this time going straight for the rear leg, and resolving to lift more weights in the farming off-season.

The head you nestle between the sides where it won't topple or slide around as you drive home.

When you pull into your driveway, you look around the neighborhood, curious if anyone will bear witness to the cold carcass you are about to lug into the house, one side and then the next.  Ours must surely be the strangest household in town.  You wonder what neighbors think as you sharpen knives and don aprons, cleaning the countertop and laying down plastic and a cutting board to keep things clean.

By the time that carcass has come into your possession, it is most definitely meat.  It looks like the meat we all know, cold to the touch and bloodless.  If you start to glance across the landscapes of reds, pinks and whites, you can see cuts waiting to come out.  The marbling and the fat cap are enough to make your mouth water.  But that pig waited for you to bring "slop" this summer— veggies, fruit, the occasional cracked egg.  You knew that pig, although not closely.  No names were exchanged.  This stranger is now coming to rest in your house, in your freezer and eventually, the bellies of you and your friends and family.

And then, you begin.  With that first grasp of the leaf lard, lifting, gently tearing, you have begun to butcher an animal.  The sound of leaf lard separating from the tender organs and muscles it protected is like the sound of a peeling grapefruit.  It's crisp, the detachment is audible.  You wonder if your body would come apart so easily.  The sound makes you thirsty, a Pavlovian response that surprises you in the context of dismembering something.  But it's January, and grapefruit are in season.

As you settle into the carcass, you remember things.  Separate the legs right in the joint, popping the tendons and putting downward pressure until the two bones part ways.  Cut at the 7th rib, use the weight of the shoulder to break through the spinal column rather than cutting with a saw or cleaver.  Look for seams, and separate at the silver skin with your fingers first, following through with the tip of the knife.  Let the weight of those large muscles and pieces fall away from themselves.  Butchering is tough physical labor, but some of the work is done by the pig.  It's ironic, the way our bodies betray us.

Bit by bit, you realize that what was a nearly unmanageable half of a pig has become "primals" which then are whittled away into things that your kindergarten-era memory recognizes.  Chops, loin, belly that still looks unmistakably like bacon even though four days ago this animal was waiting expectantly to be fed each morning.  Through it all, that is what you remember most.  You take care not to waste a single thing.  Anything that falls on the floor are eagerly cleaned up by your dogs, and you set aside a bowl for scraps to grind later.  Even the bones will be turned into rich stocks later on.  Your reptilian brain tells you not to waste a single morsel, because it is all sustenance.  Your modern-day brain tells you not to waste anything because the thought of any of this beautiful animal ending up in a landfill along with the neighborhood trash makes you queasy.

The hardest part for me is the head.  There's no way around how personal it is to slice the jowls off of this creature's face, but the jowls are plump and sumptuous.  First, the ears are cut off and saved for dog treats [although they're good eating, too].  Then, right under where the ears used to be, make your cut.  Scrape the knife as closely along the cranial and jaw bones as you can.  Suddenly, the sound of a blade scraping against teeth.  You inhale sharply, close your eyes, take a breath.  Proceed with care, but remember that this animal was alive.  You cut just under the eye, still locked in smiling disregard.  When you've removed both cheeks, the jovial pig has been reduced to a hollowed-looking monster, teeth clenched in a grimace.  Some part of your brain tells you to take this skull in your hands and say thanks.  You murmur it, and know that you will use the head, too.  It will stay with the body for now, just in many more parts than three.

It never gets any easier, never stops causing me to take a sharp breath and be thankful.  The day I stop caring about the meat as I did the animal— or vice versa— is the day I should put down the blades and perhaps farming itself.  The things that make farming and eating meat difficult are the same things that make it joyful and rewarding.

After a long evening of butchering, Christian and I collapsed on the couch, nearly too tired even to wait for rice to cook.  We had a simple dinner, rice and a skirt-type steak from the pig.  It was just what we needed, and each bite was rich, perfectly seared, and inspiring.

I Used to Throw Like A Girl...

My hat, modeled by Oscar

... then I starting working on a farm and now I throw like a MAN.

OK, probably not so much but it's been suggested.  I amuse most of the good ol' boys around here just by virtue of being me, but in the months since I started working the amusement seems to have turned from "haha, you're a sissy girl" to something more along the lines of, "She's a pretty good worker... for a woman!"  I'm fairly certain that Paul meant that as equal parts joke and hearty compliment, and it's something I hold close and carry proudly with me out here.

Jim has been working on the house near to where most of the pigs are kept.  Apparently on his smoke breaks he watches us work from the windows.  One day we got done around the same time, and I walked over to say hello.  "How's it going Kate?" he asked. "Out there workin' like a man?"

His favorite joke now seems to revolve around me arm-wrestling the other guy working on the house, Ray— and winning, of course.  Yesterday as I was filling buckets of water, Jim stuck his head out the window and hollered to Ray, who was carrying sheets of drywall or something, "Well lookatchu Ray, carrying two at once!  If you keep that up you'll be as strong as Kate!"

Amidst the blood [literal], sweat [literal], and tears [figurative] of the day, that just struck me as so incredibly funny that I was grinning about it all evening.  On some days it feels as if my body's going to break if I try to lift or throw or hoist or... anything else!  Other days, however, the combination of icy wind and a gently warming sun and pig problems makes me feel so very much alive that each breath feels like a renewal.  This must be what the French mean when they talk about joie de vivre.

This morning I was out in a field perched on the tractor bucket 8 feet above the frozen ground, tipping bags of grain into a big feeder.  Chew [his name is either Jimmy or Johnny but no one can ever remember so he just goes by Chew... wah not?]... anyway Chew walked up and we talked about this n' that... as he bid good day he paused, turned to me [by that time climbing back onto the tractor] and said "You know, I'm gon' brag on you a bit now but, for a woman... you amaze me."

Seems I really earned the soft pink Carhartt hat that keeps me warm when I'm out working with the pigs.  Many thanks to Chuck and Nadine for the badge of honor.