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Good Day Sunshine

The first thing that happened at the ranch today was that a sheep had its head stuck in the eat-throughs and was wailing to get out. As a matter of fact, the same animal was stuck like that yesterday, too. The eat-throughs are this face of welded steel pipes with articulated parts that allow you to throw out hay and when the buggers go for it you can lock their heads in there if you choose to do so. But we didn't lock this sheep in, instead it stuck its head through these narrow pipe sets that are on either side of the main openings. Usually to free the animal you stand on the feed side of the grate and manipulate its head and chin and it helps by pulling backwards and out. But this sheep, #84, is confused and tries to escape forward rather than in reverse. If you have the approximate picture in your mind that I intended with my description then you know that forward is no means of escape for the animal. It took Brian and I together to free 84, he with head in hand and me behind dragging her by the wool. Brian calls the sheep pillocks, a derisive term of endearment that is growing on me.

We also spent some time today patrolling the electric fence lines to look for shorts. I walked the length of the riverfront fence, about 300 m, and saw things that I never noticed before like a big spruce tree, some alders, and the amber defoliated stems of the invading Japanese knotweed. The sun was out for much of today, if "much" can really be applied when the daylight hours are only from about 7:30am to 4:30pm. But we are less than three weeks from the solstice, and the days will be getting longer soon. After we took care of the fence and feeding pillocks, I had a chance to hit my golf ball and practice yoga out in the pasture, with the sun on my face.

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.