A Country Wedding

No, not mine.

We've been preparing for a wedding at the farm for over a month now. The celebration took place yesterday and it was deeply satisfying to see everyone enjoy themselves, the food, and the simple beauty of the, and a, farm. One of our roosters, whom we call Handsome, even invited himself over and hung out behind the bar for a while.

My favorite part may have been the father of the groom breaking down into tears and exclaiming, "this is the proudest day of my life!" to a tearful audience... But it may also have been the many gracious guests who thanked us for the work we did. Or perhaps the guests who were excited about their first trip to a farm and had questions about the animals, or just took a walk through the vineyard and hops to explore. It's tough to pick a favorite because, after all the work and thought and sweat you put into an event like this, having everything go smoothly (while looking gooooood) is incredibly gratifying.

After 14 hours yesterday, I headed home exhausted but exhilarated. As George put it so well, if you plow and the smell of the fresh earth doesn't speak to you, well, farming isn't for you.

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.