Chicken Run

Novmeber 26, 2010

What better way to start Thanksgiving than by slaughtering and gutting some chickens together with my local community? The opportunity was presented to me by Ginger of Revolution Gardens, who was shrewdly utilizing a number of visiting holiday guests and neighbors to cull her overpopulated coops and process clucking birds into frozen meat. In fact, I was glad to be invited to lend a hand because killing a chicken or two is something I had never done before and had been interested in doing for a while. The desire to take part in the slaughter process is tied up with my overall goal of immersing myself in homesteading skills and experience directly what it means physically and morally to participate in the food production process. So when I heard that the work would begin at ten in the morning on Thanksgiving day, I made sure to be there.

Ginger is a very energetic young farmer and as such attracts a variety of people around her. The common link, as far as I can tell, is interest in local food and creating alternatives to our dominant American culture. Our crew of about ten people ranged in age from about 22 to 35, and a number of us were neophytes as regards bird decapitation. When I initially arrived I was directed to follow two young women out to one of the coops while they grabbed a chicken. For the first round I just observed. Once captured, the bird is held hanging upside down by the feet as it is carried towards the crimescene. Inversion causes blood to flow to the head, hopefully causing a woozy sensation preceding the fall of the hatchet. Someone had contrived a chopping block with a pair of nails banged in to make a bracket for the head. With the feet still in hand, the bird’s head is held in this bracket, and then lopped off. Thankfully the blade was razor sharp, and I got through all of the necks that I cut in one stroke.

The part of the process that most caused my mind to squirm was the carry from coop to block. At that point I felt the most ethical weight of the situation, that I was bringing a living creature to the pain of death for the purpose of eating its flesh to nourish my own body and those of my human friends. My antidote to this moral squeamishness was to talk to the bird and tell it how grateful we were for its work in life of eating and growing so that it could offer itself to us, and how we would use its nutritious meat to grow and be our best selves. Once I arrived in the kill zone ethical concerns blinked off and there was simply a task to be done with as much precision and skillful means as possible.

After the execution the remaining task in the meat production process immersion follow in order: hot bath dunking, plucking, gutting, cold water bath, bagging and freezing. I was interested in the gutting work, where much care must be taken not to rupture the intestines or gall bladder, thereby polluting the flesh. “It’s just dexterity with the knife and experience slicing thin membranes,” said the more experienced cutter to my right. Reactions to the work differed among those of us who were first-time killers. One companion asked, “Am I hungry or nauseous?” The question captures our dilema in taking life, which I consider essential to our survival, but which engages us in bloody revolting work.

Twenty five birds were in the freezer at the end of the session, which took a bit less than two hours. We followed with a bit of feasting in the cozy farmhouse – spicy humus, last night’s enchiladas reheated on the woodstove, a pumkin pie deemed unworthy of the supper table. Folks started to whir with kitchen activity, making dishes for and afternoon potluck. I didn’t linger there, because contribution of lentil curry was already prepared, and I wanted to change out of my blood spattered outfit and into my Thanksgiving glad rags. So I mounted my bike and pedaled home. When I arrived I was asked if I enjoyed myself. I blinked for a moment in the overcast mid day light and said, “yeah, it was fun.”

bleak house

November 24, 2010

Alone on the ranch for about five days in the freezing cold weather the water stopped today and a lamb froze to death and this morning when the guy came to shave Possums feet he said you gotta get him some protection from the wind because this old guy is shivering. So it was one of the most psychologically bleak experiences that I have had but as Sage says just think of those pioneers in Wyoming or Nebraska or wherever all alone by themselves in God know where and Brian says human beings were different then.

I’ve been digging into the dharma texts that I checked out of the Portland library. And they tell me to contemplate things like suffering, impermanence. So amid this bleak environment it seemed like the whole situation was there to offer me examples of the universal truth of suffering. The lamb was shivering and dying, the other four lambs were hungry for milk, the donkey was shivering, the sheep were covered in frozen shit, struggling to stay together as a flock, the blackberries were crushing all the other plants and then themselves shriveling into dry sticks.

The wind blows. This old guy is shivering, says a clean shaven deputy sherriff moonlighting as a horse and donkey man. Lambs bleat for food. Cold air blows overhead, to freeze the Willamette Valley, Idaho, and Texas after that. I putter around, throwing out hay, filling baby bottles of milk. Then I’m at my shrine trying to tell myself that the yellow cloth that silohuettes the Buddha is the sun. I try to breath in the suffering of the whole farm as a thick black smoke., just like the boddhisattvas do. The electric heaters hum along. Crawling under two poly-filled comfortors and a sleeping bag, I still wear a jacket so that my arms won’t be cold holding my book out in the air of my frigid bedroom. The house could burn in the night and I will have to climb out the window and slide down the icy shingles and crashland on the deck below. That’s if I wake in time to save myself from death by flame or smoke inhalation.

The cats are ripping wild birds apart and strewing them around the office, the floor of the hot tub room. Are these for me to find? Trophies and testaments to their prowess? I like it better when they leave shredded mice. One of these ferocious ones is with me now as I write, playing with a ball of wool on the throw rug, now knocking down a piece of particle board and jumping away. The cartoon cat on TV steps on a pitchfork, triggers a piece of plywood, and is flattened. The mouse escapes.

I rig plywood and a blanket to keep the wind off the jackass. I pitchfork the hay to the front of the feeders so that the sheep can reach it with their heads thrust through the steel bars. I lounge a little in the electric heat of the office and then heat up the cast iron skillet that’s been on the stove for two days. Roast beef in barbecue sauce and sauteed vegetables. Or maybe just a cup of tea and a saccharine muffin would be better. I have to feed myself before I can feed the animals.

Domesticated Violence

The farm is cold, the whole area is cold, the roads are icy and slushy, a lot of people slid off into the ditch. I was almost one of those people on Sunday night because I was driving back from Portland on US 26 and the conditions were dark snowy and deplorable. I was driving the slowest, holding up about six or seven cars behind me at one point. It is a psychological challenge to have all those people behind you and know about their pent up road rage but you just have to maintain confidence that you are the one with sound judgement and they are imprudently throwing caution to the flaky wind.

I am alone here on the farm for a few days because my patrones went to Port Townshend and then got stuck there by the snow. I am carrying on the best that I can. There was a lamb that died this morning after spening a very cold night trying to warm itself in between a water tank and a concrete wall. I brought it indoors and fed it a little milk and then put it next to a heater, but when I left it its breathing was barely perceptible and when I checked it ninety minutes later it was dead. The sad part for me is that I could have helped this animal a few days ago when I originally noticed its hunched up hindquarters and malnourished look. Although I did what I could this morning, by then it was to late.

And then to add insult to injury one of the house cats decapitated and disemboweled a bird and flung it on the floor of my office. I used its slashed bits to do my best Andy Goldsworthy impression out on the front stoop.

Alternatives to Turkey

We had a sale on London broil roasts at the Lloyd Farmers' Market last week. It seems like the roasts don't sell quite as well as the smaller cuts of beef and lamb. I wonder if this is because people are intimidated by a large chunk of meat and are unsure how to prepare it. So for the promotion, along with a special price, I was asked to find a recipe to print on half sheets and distribute to our customers. Both Sage and I were happy that we moved a few more London broil cuts that day.

And I helped myself overcome the reluctance to cook a big roast that I described above. I thought that I had better try to prepare the dish that I was selling, so I followed the recipe and made London broil for a small dinner that I hosted over this past weekend. The cooking time stated is for a medium rare roast with red blood dripping from the middle of the slices when the meat is served. Now with all due respect to my mom, to whom I am very grateful for all the food she made, the fact is that where I grew up we learned to cook things until they were three shades of gray. So it was empowering to find out that I can actually make something that is medium rare, like I like it at a steak house. My kind guests said how nicely done the meat was, and not one of them has called to complain of food poisoning.

Meadow Harvest London Broil

London Broil is a method of preparation rather than a cut of meat. Top round, crossrib roast, flank steak, sirloing tip, i.e. the more muscular sinewy cuts, can be used to make the dish. Our London Broil cut is a top round roast. Traditional preparation involves marinating the meat, broiling or grilling at high heat, and slicing diagonally to serve. We offer below a basic recipe and encourage you to experiment with your marinade using ingredients that you like such as ginger, soy sauce, chipotle pepper, etc.

Ingredients:


1/2 cup olive oil


1 tablespoon lemon juice


1/2 cup red wine


3 cloves garlic; smashed


1 tablespoon salt


1 teaspoon coarse-cracked black pepper


1 1/2 top round “London broil” roast

In a mixing bowl or sealable plastic bag large enough to fit roast combine oil, lemon juice, wine, garlic, salt and pepper. Add roast and marinate 4 hours, turning once after 2 hours. Drain meat, pat dry and place on a broiler pan. Broil under preheated broiler, 10 minutes per side, until well-browned. Transfer to cutting board and slice against the grain. Save leftovers for sandwiches.

BTW, I am eating leftover sandwiches right now, along with T-Bone's homemade BBQ sauce, which is bomb, and which I will share in another post.

Rough skinned newt

Do all of my readers know this critter? If not, let me introduce you to the rough-skinned newt. For me, this is one of the most characteristic fauna of the Pacific Northwest Coast, more so than the spotted owl, the red-tree vole, ranking somewhere below the industrious beaver whose role as a keystone habitat builder cannot be denied

Why do I have such esteem for this amphibian? Because I see her all the time walking with impunity on the forest floor on the overcast and drizzly days that are the norm at this time of year. She walks with impunity because her flesh is deadly poisonous to any who is foolhardy enough to swallow her. Each year there are stories or myths about frat boys who die during their pledge initiation because their older brothers make them eat a rough skinned newt. Presumably the local owls and giant salamanders learned better to avoid this forbidden food.

I was reminded about the charming everpresence of this newt when I went out jogging this past saturday on a state forest trail. There must have been one of these suckers every 15 meters on the path, and I had to shuck and jive just to avoid stomping one.

Pain Rustique

Have I mentioned that I love baguettes? Yes, I like them with cheese, salsa, ripped savagely, sliced diagonally to increase surface area, and especially dipped in extra virgin olive oil. My favorite baguette is at Little T American Baker on Division in PDX. Today I was strolling the commercial drag in Astoria, after delivering a little grassfed meat to the local co-op, when I ran into some friends celebrating their anniversary. They were enthusiastic about an artisan culinary renaissance in that historic town, and mentioned the Blue Scorcher Bakery Cafe. So I thought I would go up there and see about a long skinny.

When I got up to the counter I was greeted by a friendly young longhair with tribal style ear piercings. He saw me looking at the shelf and asked me what I would like. I had sticker shock honestly because these guys wanted three dollars and 75 cents for what they call a baguette rustique. I had already bought the thing in my mind when I walked into the place, so ultimately I was gonna pay the ask. However I wanted to delay what I consider a fleecing. Little T charges like $2.50 or $2.75 max. So I stalled by asking what the difference between a rustic and a regular baguette really is. The clerk didn't know so he called over another guy, in his late 30's, who apparently is in a long term relationship with the dough. He had overheard my question and said that he had a "high dollar" answer. How appropriate, I thought, since I am about to shell out two bits shy of a four spot for a long skinny. Kidding aside, though, his answer proved contrary to my expectations.

Intuitively I would think that "rustic" bread would be produced by an oldschool technique thrown aside and forgotten as progress marched forward and then rediscovered by the present day mavericks who are reviving our culture, but this is not the case. According to the guy, who I will call Rick, French baking technocrats in late 19th standardized bread yeast culture and the classic white baguette was born, with the dough being mixed early in the morning and baked that day. Then some guy in a puffy white hat hit on the idea that if you mixed some dough the day before you added joie de vivre to the bread. But you could only use about 33% yesterday's dough in an extreme case, otherwise the mixture was unstable and prone to catastrophe. I picture Liam Neeson in Darkman with his lab created skingrafts melting off his face at the most inopportune moments, except now the masks are made of chewy delicious white bread rather than synthetic human epidermis. Into this alarming scenario steps the brilliant Dr. Clavell, who perfects a dough that can be mixed the day before in a 50% proportion and retain its stability. All France rejoices. Rick says that the process Clavell discovered a century ago unleashes texture and flavor that'll make you wanna smack your mama. Well, he didn't really say that but vibrant enthusiasm was definitely coming across. Rick pointed out the complex texture of the outer crust of the baguette. "You don't get that with the classic bread dough. It's that appearance that we describe as rustic." So in fact rustic French bread is a later stage of development, rather than a rediscovered folk art.

Am I lucky enough to have a reader in need of a food stylist? I will work for food.

19350 - Mountains from Molehills

Here are some shots of the field where I am doing my gardening and golfing. You can see my nascent garlic patch with is sheet mulched with cardboard and manure. The manure more raw than I would like so it is heavy and hard to work with. I rototilled the ground twice and then put down the sheet mulch. Now I am planting garlic bulbs in rows using the posts and string as a guide. I scrape trenches under the string with a mattock and then fill the trenches with soil excavated by moles that I collect from the field. Molehills are great texture because they are worked through and fluffed by those little mole claws. Most people in this area have heavily clay soil because heavy rains leach minerals away, but we live in an historic river terrace and our soil is black gold.

19350 - lamb-scaping

In

the past two days a comfortable division of labor existed between me and the the sheep. I prune the trees with hand tools. The sheep prune the brush piles with their teeth. Overall I admire their willingness to take on chores but they are inconsistent in their effort. Also if some of them don't learn to speak spanish they will not rise to the managerial rank of rural-residential landscaping business.

Now the post is over in terms of content but I have to just write some more to fill up the screen because I can't leave a blank space next to the picture yeah that would look stupid and I would be an idiot so instead you get this you really could stop reading now because this is just getting depressing no one wants to read this blog anyway so why don't you just burn it yeah i said it burn your computer no just kidding please don't do that that would be dangerous and i don't want you or your beloveds to get hurt or damage your place of business or private residence the point is that these sheep are diligent and that you should trust them to edge your prized bouganvilla beds as long as their area of operation is strictly delineated by portable electric poly mesh and they have not eaten to many mushrooms out of the pasture because that will just make them lazy

Mushroom harvest

Chanterelle mushrooms, for the last two days I have been harvesting them. The current haul is part of a second fungal bloom going on in here on the north Oregon coast. There was an earlier flowering in September that I totally missed out on, and then the exceptionally warm dry weather that persisted in October reduced mushroom abundance. Here is quintessential chanterelle habitat: youngish regenerated conifer stands with unvegetated understory, on a slope. I don't know if there is an ideal aspect. I took some on our place, at the far end of my golf course, and at a neighbor's.

Last night I sauteed them up and threw them on a burger with habanero jack cheese. There were leftovers so I gobbled the balance on baguette slices. At four in the morning I woke up with a bellyache that got my attention. I only eat wild mushrooms that I have learned from someone whose knowledge I trust and that I am certain of. But the thought did cross my mind that I had made an error and swallowed something unpalatable or worse. My gut pain, however, lasted for only one or two contractions of the viscera, and I fell back asleep.

I have heard conflicting reports on the nutritional value of mushrooms. Some say devoid of nutritive value, others say choked full of vitamins and other healthful compounds. A plantsman I know told me have a carcinogenic effect, so better to avoid in mass quantities. What do you think? If you have any info, get at me.

The image above gives you a general view of Meadow Harvest Farm where I am staying. I took it around nine this morning facing west. The treeline in the background is on the opposite bank of the North Fork Nehalem river. Notice the fencing that divides the photo more or less in half. On the right side is my proposed market garden plot, where I plan to grow garlic, artichokes, multicolored spuds, etc. I rototilled this piece one time and did a second till of a small subsection that appears darker than the surrounding ground, in shadow, almost to the buildings. Left of the fence is where I play golf. You can see sheep in the shadow on that side. They graze in there regularly so the grass is cropped down low enough that I don't lose that many balls.