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...

Make Love And Lard

Well, we did it.

Raised a pig.

Finished a pig.

Butchered a pig.

Have pork for sale.

The results were better than we had even dared hope.  Our lovely, apple- and black walnut-finished pigs lived a good life and they live on in our hearts and bodies.  This is why we do what we do.  And that marbling!  My goodness.

And in case you're interested in buying any, the first results are starting to come in...  There's nothing that feels so good as hearing that you raised and produced a happy animal and a tasty product.

If you want to try some for yourself, email me at kate@hamsweetfarm.com for available cuts and prices.

Thanks, piggies.  We love you.

Porky Preview

Hubba hubba!

Practice Practice Practice

This afternoon, I left work early.  Actually, I left earlier than the "early" I had originally intended.  We were due at our local packing plant before 6 pm this evening, but today's nasty wind & rain made C and I worry about impending darkness, loading conditions, and the safest trip possible.

I planned to leave the office around 2 or so, but by 12:30 I was so nervous I couldn't concentrate on the work at hand.  I alternated between bouts of feeling sick to my stomach, and welling tears.  I finished up and left at 1, thankful for the escape to my car and the radio.  Between tears and rainy it was a blurry ride home.  One of my old country favorites came on, and I had to laugh at how the love story might have been about farming...

Going out of my mind these days,

Like I'm walkin' round in a haze.

I can't think straight, I can't concentrate.

And I need to shave.

I go to work and I look tired.

The boss man says: "Son, you're gonna get fired,

This ain't your style," and from behind my coffee cup,

I just smile.

What a beautiful mess!

What a beautiful mess I'm in.

Spendin' all my time with you,

There's nothin' else I'd rather do.

What a sweet addiction that I'm caught up in.

'Cos I can't get enough,

Can't stop the hunger for your love.

What a beautiful, what a beautiful mess I'm in. 

Ahhh.

This morning put salt in my coffee.

I put my shoes on the wrong feet.

I'm losin' my mind, I swear; It might be the death of me,

But I don't care.

Had you told me a year ago that C and I would own a little farmstead, in Michigan, and be taking our first pigs to slaughter before the year was out, I wouldn't have known what to say!  Not possible.  Too many moving pieces in Colorado, jobs, the house, our friends... but here we are, and it's a frightful and wonderful piece of work.  It truly does consume most of our time, energies, resources, but the rewards and satisfaction are immeasurable.  The relationships we have with the animals also are their own reward... but it makes parting such sweet sorrow.

When I got home, it was time for early evening feeding and chores.  The pigs get an afternoon snack of some kind every day when I get home from work— they know that when the car pulls into the driveway, snack-time is drawing nigh!  They came running from the back of their pasture, faces and legs black from the rich peat-y mud they turn over in their rooting exploits each day.  They make a particular grunt when they think food is coming to them— not quite a grunt, not nearly a whine, but a higher-pitched singsong call.  

For the last few days, we have had our trailer backed up to the pen, gate down.  We've been feeding them on the trailer so that they're used to getting on and off of it— the last thing you want while trying to load pigs is for them to panic or just plain refuse to go up the ramp.  The two pigs we planned to take typically hang out and eat together, and the two we're keeping tend to eat together.  That makes things fairly easy.  Put some treats in each of our two feeders, one on the trailer and one off, and the pigs will sort themselves out!  

All of the sleep I've lost over the past few days [and truly, weeks] thinking of every single detail I may have forgotten or overlooked, a what-if I may not have considered, a zombie invasion... it all fell away when Jack Sparrow and Rigatoni flung themselves up onto the trailer in their haste to get to the fresh apples and bread awaiting.  Ramp up, pins in, I climb out trying not to bust my nose open slipping on muddy Mucks... sigh of relief, laughter to diffuse tears.  It's go time.

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.

Ham Sweet Farm in the news!

I promise I haven't forgotten about you, little blog!

The passing of time on a farm is marked by empty bags of grain, refilled waterers, ripening tomatoes, and growing babies.  Our ducks, who were once so small that they couldn't be contained inside the small bars of a dog crate, have now outgrown the coop we built for them.  Our pigs outgrew the feeder we made for them, their shoulders growing too wide to fit four-abreast.  When we first got them, all five could eat from one feeder at the same time [albeit with some squealing].

The rotational nature of growing living things is entrancing, hypnotizing, steady.  By the time you catch up on one corner of the farm, another has grown wild and needs attention.  So it is, too, with the seasons.  The bursting greens of spring, the scorching haze of summer, the bounty of autumn, the halting blanket of winter.

With September looming just around the corner, we are starting to think of wintry solutions to what surely will be problems with our methods of feeding and watering everyone.  Currently, you can stumble outside in pajamas and flipflops to take care of morning chores.  A few crisp mornings with dew resting heavy on the grass jolted us into the reality that soon, we will need to be all layered up before we venture outside.  Reality bites.  But it also means an end to the frenetic garden-watering and grass-mowing and fence-building, at least until spring decides to come around again.

The local magazine Capital Gains was kind enough to interview me recently, for an article about eating ethical meat.  I'm always happy to talk about why Christian and I are doing what we're doing.  Check it out below!

Conscientious Flexitarians— eating the right meat

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.

Words to Live By

"Trying to breed the fat out of pigs 

is like making a yolkless egg."

                    — Brian Polcyn [interview here]

First Harvest!

Oh my gosh, I grew something!!  Even after a few years of concerted efforts toward gardening, the feeling of harvesting something from YOUR own garden is still miraculous.  We've gotten great rain so far this summer so I've only watered once... After living in Colorado, the fact that anything you plant can be studiously ignored until you're ready to eat it is a gift.  Rich black earth, forgiving skies and humidity that plants just soak in to produce sweet, tender leaves...

So, what do we have?  3 kinds of basil, collards, cilantro, and the best damn broccoli I have ever had.  It's so sweet and tender, worlds away from what comes from the supermarket.  We also have various herbs that are ready to be picked and dried or used fresh, tomatoes that are quickly growing into trees, eggplant, cabbage, Brussels sprouts, tomatillos, zucchini, a few types of peppers, onions, garlic...  we're also trying sweet corn, which I have had terrible luck with in the past, but it's growing!

We turned up a new section of the garden in what used to be lawn, and the plan was to leave that fallow this year and let the old grass decompose.  But then we bought some carving pumpkin seeds, and decided to sow them directly into the overturned sod.  The pumpkin vines are strong, vigorous and starting to flower.  Looks like we'll have lots of decorating to do for Halloween this year, and plenty of good eats for the animals as well.

Oh, and our hens laid their first eggs.  Two of them.  Dinner!

Here's to the joy that bounty brings.  

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.

Testing testing...

Apparently I can post directly from my phone, which will make pictures even easier to share! Not quite sure how this will work but let's give it a whirl, shall we?

I'm intoxicated presently by the heady aroma of strawberries. My fingers are red from juice, as I slice them in preparation to be frozen. We're trying to preserve food when we have an abundance, and I hope it will be a spectacular success come winter when all this currently-growing bounty has been plowed back into the earth and a cold wind is howling through the greenhouse.

Gathering Eggs

It may seem like a simple pleasure to take part in the daily ritual of egg-gathering.  Once you've tasted one of these, however... an egg to you will become anything but simple.

You may even be so inspired as to take them directly to the kitchen, along with some fresh spring chard of course...

After topping it with some sour cream, into the yolk— rich, fresh and golden— you go!  Talk about a real breakfast of champions; this will keep you energized all day long!  Not only because the food is rich and packed with nutrients to nourish your body, but because you gathered the egg and cut the greens and ate it sitting on a porch step in the sunshine.

Hello, dream life.

Everything is perfect.  I won't bore you with details about what a wonderful boyfriend and partner I have, how much fun our dogs are, how much we love where we live.  But trust me, I couldn't have imagined anything better than where I am and what I'm doing.  These days I'm hardly ever on the computer, much to the chagrin of countless people with whom I mean to, and want to, stay connected.  It's pretty great, too, because just about all I do is sign in to pay a bill here and there.  While I'm not out working dawn till dusk outside everyday... some days that's not far from the truth.

I'm working on two, yes TWO farms.  Leistikow Farms which raises lamb and goats, hay, numerous grape varietals and produce in a greenhouse is my home-away-from-home these days.  George, Kim and Olivia make even the longest and most difficult days of work or life so much more bearable, richer, filled with a lot more laughter.  As of last week I'm also working two days a week in Cure Organic Farm's farm store.  Both jobs are a lot of fun, challenging in different ways, and shining examples of what local food can be— and what local farmers are capable of accomplishing.  I feel incredibly fortunate to be learning from some of the best farmers/people/characters in the area, and also to have this Farmily around me.

And oh, did I mention the BABY GOATS?!

So cute they make even the most hardened and impassive people melt.  Close to 70 have been born to date, and when you walk into the goat pen it appears to have been raining babies.  They snooze, they scamper, they do kick-flips off the barn walls, they nibble on your shirt or pants or neck or anything that comes within nibbling range.

See that handsome boy on the right?  When he was born [actually, pulled from his mama due to sheer size and limits of physics], he had swelling in his shoulders and neck that rendered him unable to lift his head to nurse.  We didn't realize this until he was 12 hours old or so, by that time quite weak and Eeyore-esque.  What struck me about him was how massive his head, neck and shoulders were, like a little bulldog.  I scooped him up, gave him a bottle and named him Biff.  Christian and I want to buy him from the farm and make him ours... and thus borne, a menagerie.

Are there any other additions to the Farmily, you might wonder?  Well as a matter of fact...

Not only do we have the most handsome boy in the world, but also the most beautiful girl:

I started leasing Roxy from George and Kim— joyful joy, HORSES!  It's been so long, far far too long, since horses have been in my life.  Everything about them feels like home to me, from their soft whiskers tickling your hand as they nuzzle for treats to the sweet green smell of their sweat.  I could shovel manure for the rest of my life and be a pretty happy girl.  

So, Roxy.  One day Christian was returning from a business trip to Toronto and said he had a surprise birthday present for me.  My birthday was a month off and he told me he was going to keep it a surprise.  Silly me, thought he had found a unique store of some kind in Toronto... but when I picked him up from the airport he jumped in the car and blurted out, "IboughtyouRoxyhappybirthday!"  My stunned open-mouthed silence turned to Are you serious?? and tears.  Mine!  My horse.  I'm still trying those words out in my head a month later.

Last but not least... something else I've always wanted.  Still not quite sure how it happened but I bought my very own American Freedom Machine.  I call her Bumble.  My Buttertruck.

Livin' the dream... still in my high heels and muck boots.  Wouldn't have it any other way.  I promise not to ignore this blog any longer... I'd like to go back to regaling you with pictures of random bits of beauty and cuteness, and the occasional rant or video or who knows what.  Life is too unpredictable to have it any other way!

xo

P.S.  Here's the blog I've been neglecting this one for, in case you're wondering... http://www.the365kitchen.com/

Miss Cracklins, part 2

[Read part 1 here]

We stepped onto the kill floor.  Steam was roiling up from the scalder making the room humid, sticky, almost tropical.  The clean, buttery smell of fresh blood was in the air and I was nervous.  We discussed how the harvest had been going thus far with the men on the floor, their rolled-up sleeves revealing knotted muscles and scars.  We walked into the blast chiller to check out the morning's carcasses, still with wisps of steam curling up amongst them as Jay looked them over.  They were beautiful.  And I was nervous, nervous, nervous.

We'd gotten a late start that day and there was only one pig left to walk through the doors from the holding pen.  The door opened and she walked into the chute.  At that point I could feel some adrenaline coursing through my veins and I was focused on nothing else in the room.  The workers were finishing up with another carcass so Jay and I stood and watched as this sow checked the room out, sniffed around, took a couple exploratory nibbles on the bars of the chute, tried to root under the door through which she had just walked.

She didn't appear to be stressed out, just curious, just... obstinate.  The one pig with the neck fatter than any others... It took me what felt like years to finally turn to Jay and whisper, it's Cracklins.

I know, he said.

Of course we had both known the moment they opened the door.  Of course she WOULD be lucky number 13, the last pig to be slaughtered, the only one we would see.  If watching an animal die was ever going to turn me into a strict vegetarian for life, it would be the queen of the tummy-rub herself.  My legs felt rooted in place, as anyone who consumes meat is rooted to the slaughterhouses of the world.  One man picked up the .22 and walked up to her, steadied his aim... she moved.  It had to be a clean shot, an instant kill, for him to take it.  And then he did.  And there was Miss Cracklins' blood pooling on the kill floor.

What more is there to say?  This had to be personal because eating is as personal as it is animal.  Cracklins had a good life, as did all of the hogs we harvested.  In the end, I wasn't upset.  The night before, after loading them onto a trailer and sending them off the farm, Jay and I were watching Forrest Gump.  In the depths of some sad theme music I suddenly was awash in tears [and let me say, also extremely embarrassed.  What a girl!].  I was afraid of what I might see in the morning and how I might potentially feel about it.  I felt heartsick.  Jay was concerned and gently suggested that maybe we shouldn't go, but I insisted.  Never again would I have this opportunity and I tried to explain why.  He and I both realized, I think, that it wasn't a morbid curiosity but need for both answers and more questions.

How I came to be so intimately involved with meat and livestock and a farm is sometimes as much a mystery to me as it is to you, my readers, my family and friends.  I love it, but I also love the opportunity to tell people about what I see, just in case they wonder about but will likely never visit a kill floor.  I think it's something worth seeing, but I also think there is a right and wrong way to go about getting there.  You can't see blood for the sake of seeing it.  Cracklins is a reason for everyone to know their farmer, even if you don't want to know the names of his or her bacon-makers.  She's a reason to know your butcher, to know where your food comes from, and know how you feel about the way it was produced.  Death is difficult to see, but peace of mind is a beautiful thing.

Miss Cracklins, part 1

Creepin' up to say 'hey'

Here is why I've been hesitant to write about the pig formerly known as Cracklins:

we gave her a name and she enjoyed belly rubs and then she got mean and then she became sausage.

There, ok, I said it.

That's sort of what it comes down to, but at the same time, I'm not sure how to go about sharing the humor and smiles and, frankly, the agony caused by this one particular sow.  The book Half the Sky by Nick Kristof and Sheryl WuDunn describes the challenge writers and activists are faced with when translating a problem into action from readers: people feel overwhelmed by the idea of hundreds, thousands, or millions of beings [whether women, children, oppressed peoples, or animals] in trouble.  But if you can just tell the story of one, and give the reader a way to feel connected, you can build support or garner donations or accomplish what it is you've set out to do.

So what is the problem here?  The problem is that when most people go to the supermarket and pick out neat little bloodless packages of chicken breasts or ground chuck or pork loin, they only see the meat.  There is no connection to the animals.  To channel Temple Grandin again, it was here, now it's meat.  Where did it go?

Miss Cracklins was somewhat of an abberation.  All of the hogs on the farm are fairly social— they're used to the humans, legs, boots with stick-things coming out of them, whatever, that walk through the herd and bring grain and move fences.  Some of them don't mind being touched, some of them squeal if you get close, and some of them like back scratches.  Pigs are curious and they aren't above taking little bites of your boots when you're standing amongst a swirl of them.  But this goofy one, Miss Cracklins...  you'd be out in the field counting or fixing a fence or something and it would catch your eye.  This pig would be standing right behind you, waiting for a tummy rub.  And she would lay down and roll over, eyes closed, and let you scratch her to your heart's content.  As long as you were willing to stay there, she was happy to be there.

Out of 100 or so hogs running freely in a huge wooded pasture, many of whom looked almost exactly like she did, I could pick her out of the crowd by her fat neck.  Good lord did she have a fat neck, and I mean really.

The Cracklins fairytale continued as it became apparent that she was going to be a mama!  In raising free-range pigs, unlike in factory operations where confinement makes temperament irrelevant, a friendly sow makes life easier for everyone.  In theory her pigs would be friendly too, and if you had the choice between a sow who wanted to take a chunk out of your butt and one who wanted a tummy rub, the choice is pretty obvious which you would want to keep around.

On the day that we loaded for the last fall harvest, we saved her out.  Once again, among 20 hogs who mostly looked the same, there was Miss Cracklins and her fat neck.  She had a diva personality and was obstinate about being moved... even sweet-talk and grain failed to win her over.  But she was still here and everyone was excited for her little piggies to arrive.

She farrowed while I was home for Christmas, and out of 8 pigs only 2 survived.  Some sows have really great maternal instincts and others just... don't.  But even that could be forgiven for an inexperienced sow.  What I noticed, however, was that while the other sows in the field with her became increasingly friendly [game of tag with the Plastic-Loving Pig, anyone?], Cracklins became more aggressive.  It didn't make much sense to me but the signs were unmistakeable.  She was still small, but I kept imagining her with an extra 100, 200, 300 pounds of weight and attitude.  I certainly wouldn't want to work with her.

I had a difficult time choosing, between all of the sows I had come to know, which ones to keep and which to send for one final harvest.  They have distinct personalities.  With Cracklins, even the thought of sending her, a named pig, made me a little uneasy.  I'm new to this and I'm a softy prone to anthropomorphizing.  But for many reasons, she was loaded onto the trailer with the others.

to be continued...

Eating Well

Yesterday I watched the HBO film Temple Grandin.  She's arguably the world's most famous autistic person, and a foremost expert on animal behavior and slaughterhouse design.  Grandin thinks and sees the world in pictures, she has a difficult time understanding what death means.  [Just watch the movie, I can't do it justice.]

In one scene that particularly moved me, she questions what happens to a cow after it is slaughtered:

"Where does it go?  It  was here, now it's meat.  Where does it go?"

Being here on the farm for nearly 6 months has brought that question to my mind as well.  Once as we were loading a group of hogs to send to the processing plant, I wryly remarked that "today is the first day of the rest of your lives."  [The pigs didn't seem terribly impressed by my sense of humor, but they don't get impressed by much except straw and grain.]  These pigs, like millions of other livestock around the world, are born and raised for slaughter.  Our market hogs spend about a year on the farm, rooting around for delicious woodlands treats.  Then they spend 2 years curing, becoming Woodlands Pork.

In the months since I first arrived at the farm, I've gotten to know the pigs pretty well, not only individually but collectively in their respective groups.  I see their day-to-day interactions, and they see a lot of me.  When they're hungry they follow me around, even if I'm nowhere near their pasture.  They'll walk their fenceline, eyes trained on me, and whine in my general direction.  Some of them like to nibble on my boots, others like to rub on the tractor tires.  A few seemed to watch for me to set down a bucket or a grain bag— as soon as I did they would snatch it and run away [can someone tell me— why do pigs LOVE plastic so much?].

Our last harvest was on Monday.  This one was personal, different from the others— previous harvest-loads came out of one large group who lived their final months in the woods.  There were too many to know them individually.  We loaded them onto the trailer or sent them back into the woods based on size, the biggest first.  You look at them one last time with the knowledge that you've taken care of them every day but... beyond that there's only so much emotional rollercoasting going on.  It's exciting to have a successful day of loading, and it means out-of-this-world [to-die-for?] pork is in your future.

I knew the ones we sent on Monday.  They have been living at the front of the farm with their piglets for the last few months.  I interacted with them every day and came to know their personalities.  The spotty one who is obsessed with plastic.  The Hereford with her ever-alert ears and that square, puffed-up way she would stand and snort if you surprised her in a field.  The two who stood watch over each other while they gave birth to piglets.  Miss Cracklins.  We sent a pig with a name.

I asked Chuck last week if I could have the day off so that I could drive up to Nelson's Processing Plant.  I felt it was a necessary part of the experience for me— as a carnivore, as a farmer, as a student, as a human— to confront the fate of "my" pigs.  Even as I discussed my reasons for wanting to go with him I could feel a tightness in my throat, the sometimes-choking knowledge that when I watched them take their last breath it wouldn't be like the cows I saw before.  These aren't pets, of course, but they're more than just dinner, too.  My sows, my charges, my Big Mamas, my girls.  It was me who walked through all of the fields and decided which ones would live and which would die, who we'd keep and who we'd eat.  Cracklins, who used to walk up to people and roll over for tummy rubs, was a lackluster sow [she had 8 piglets and only 2 survived] and she had become increasingly aggressive.  She was also difficult to work with, obstinate as hell.  So she went on the trailer along with 12 others.

Meat-eating has been getting both more and less complicated for me in the last few years.  More complicated because of what I have learned about production and what I know about the animals themselves.  But far, far less complicated because I see a clear way of eating that is good and right.  Because I personally saw to it that each of the pigs we slaughtered had a good life, to the best of my abilities.  They have forever changed the way I think about food, and not in the way I expected.  It's not what you eat, but how you eat.  As they say in West Virginia... I eat pretty damn good.

Next up, Miss Cracklins' story.  Coming soon.

Of the Fallen

[click to enlarge]

abattoir |ˈabəˌtwär|
noun
a slaughterhouse.
ORIGIN early 19th cent.: from French, from abattre ‘to fell.’


Just over one week ago I stood on a kill floor for the first time. In many ways I've been building up to that moment for a few years now [at least], learning about food systems and production and how the food we eat gets from the farm to the table. In elementary school we were assigned a research paper, and my initial "animal rights" topic quickly changed to a more focused study of slaughterhouses. What I learned turned me off meat for months, as I recall.

But let's face it. I'm like many other red-blooded Americans who love bacon and steak and fried chicken and Thanksgiving turkey. My studies [and interests in life] led me to food, and I changed the way I bought milk, where I shopped, what I shopped for. My internship in Italy got me so close to the food chain as helping raise animals, and seeing their carcasses return in halves, still warm.

But this whole part about death... that part scared me as it does so many people. It's easier to turn away and pretend that pork chops simply come from the grocery store in neat little bloodless, and plastic-wrapped, packages. I've seen film footage, both raw and in documentary form about it, but I wondered how I would feel actually being there for the moment of death. Could I ever, EVER, eat it again?

An Explanation

I suppose at some point I should explain the name change and general overhaul on here.

For the longest time, since this blog's inception, its title was "Waiting for Inspiration to Strike." In a lot of ways that really is what I was doing— throughout my college career I struggled to narrow my interests as directed by various academic advisors. I considered plenty of majors: journalism, political science, agricultural economics, history, sociology... As an incoming freshman I signed up for classes that sounded interesting in hopes of finding that one subject that really sparked my interest. That one career field I could really picture myself in. It had to be out there, right?

Well, as it turns out, I may have been looking for a field all along. I grew up obsessed and consumed by all things horse, as many little girls do. Longing to have been born in the days of the cowboys, I'm still remembered by some of my elementary school peers as "that horse girl." I dreamed about horses for years, and had one to call my own for a time. But the social demands of high school caught up with me, and I made the decision to give it up. My horse retired to a local therapeutic riding center, I sold my tack and hung my helmet up, and considered it in many ways the end of a chapter in my life [decisions made in high school seemed so final!].

One of MSU's requirements for graduation is an Integrative Studies in Biology course, and I think that is likely the origin of "the rest of it." The course I chose, "Insects, Globalization and Sustainability" was taught by a fiery, sarcastic and inspiring professor [hey Dr. Besaw!]. Even though I'd grown up in a fairly "green"-friendly family, his class laid a solid foundation for thinking about the problems of sustainability and the environment in an academic way. From there, I think food was a natural step. Everyone eats. But how do we eat?

Countdown to... something

12: piglets born today
10.5: volts running through electric fence
8: bee stings sustained after stepping in a ground nest
6: bruises on right leg
3: eggs gathered this morning
2: roosters who have chased me recently

How strange to be so far from home and yet feel, once again, that life is somehow as it should be. I've been wading back into the rhythm of waking at dawn and working for 10 or so hours until dusk begins to detract from your productivity and time is better spent at the house, enjoying a meal and a hot shower and the prospect of a down quilt. There is something so incredibly satisfying about the time and effort and sweat and blood spent and spilled outside, working with animals. Pigs. Such frustrating creatures with their stubborn destructiveness, those long eyelashes, their sweet and alarming grunts and huffs and snorts...

It was one thing to go to Italy to chase pigs around a farm. People understand Italy, with its wine and arts and food and vistas. Pigs, livestock, farming... all of it was an afterthought to them as it was to me two years ago when I applied for the internship at Spannocchia. I wanted to work with animals because I like animals, but even that was a flippant generality as I had no idea about these animals, what it takes to care for them and how that job might take over one's life. I used to wake up in the middle of the night from dreams of broken electric fences, that telltale snapping that meant hours of time fixing once again what those damned pigs had broken and then putting those pigs back where they were supposed to be all along.

But what I discovered when I left was that I really missed it. The only time in four months abroad that I felt homesick happened 2 days after I left the farm. I woke up in Cinque Terre to the sound of hens clucking across the narrow street from my bedroom window, and I was overcome with a sense of loss. How odd.

Fast forward to now. I'm in West Virginia on a pig farm. People don't really "get it" and I understand why. It's pigs and West Virginia and, basically, "most people go to college so that they don't have to do manual labor."