This morning I found my white cheesemaking smock freshly laundered,
with a new hairnet in the pocket too, hanging on the usual hook in the
cheeserie. Something about the smell of another household's laundry
detergent makes items smell so much cleaner than my own. There was a
certain irony to this fresh start to the week, as it was actually my
last day at the farm for the season.
Diana
keeps a seasonal herd, meaning her milking goats (and heritage Jacob
Sheep too) stay on their natural breeding cycle. Unlike so many dairies
that stagger the breeding of the herd to maintain uniform milk
production over a year, a seasonal herd is quite the opposite. All the
does are bred in the fall (October at this farm), carry their young
through the winter and kid in late winter or early, early spring. The
herd produces milk from the birth of the offspring through the end of
fall. This method provides milk, and cheese, that is indelibly marked by
the changes in the seasons and a short respite from twice-daily milking
for the farmer and herd alike while the girls are dry.
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| this is, generally, how it feels |
And back to the clean smock in the cheeserie - milk
volume decreased to the point that required cheese production only
twice (no longer three times) a week, and the CSA ended as well. With
less milk, less cheese and fewer deliveries, there wasn't much
justification for an extra hand on the farm. As a special treat for my
last day, and a warm reminder how much I'd learned in a short five
months, I was tasked with hauling and pasteurizing the milk that
morning, as Diana headed into town to wave her daughters goodbye on the
bus. It was an honor to feel trusted enough to undertake the alchemy of
transforming three hundred and twenty some pounds of raw goat milk into
delicious and tangy fresh cheese. Even better to feel confident through
the process.
The learning curve has been steep this
summer and fall, and I have been grateful to learn so much about basic
cheesemaking, animal management and farm systems from the perspective of
a small scale dairy. I especially appreciate the introduction to the
policy, politics and regulations surrounding small scale dairy in
Wisconsin. Oh, and eating lots and lots and lots of cheese. And, of
course, a small amount of knowledge gained reminds me of just how much I have
left to learn.
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| mingling in the barn |
The
introduction to goats and cheese is, of course, the main reasons I
ended up here. But in every new situation, there is always comfort in
that which is already known. For that reason, I flocked to the chickens
in my early days at Dreamfarm, all 250 Americaunas, Bovans, Leghorns and
someone else that just slips my mind at this moment. The girls live in
four separate houses on pasture, fenced in from predators by circles of
electric fence that stopped being electrified as the season wore on.
These pasture raised ladies warm my little heart. Partly because these
egg layers are the one thing I've had previous experience with, and also
because layers are the only enterprise I've always placed on my own
farm (of course, in my future planning mind). The truth is, the
Dreamfarm chickens became my summer security blanket. They enchanted me
and brought oodles of laughter. In return, I loved them.
At
the end of each farm day, after the 'clean clothes' work in the
cheeserie was through, we'd head to the great outdoors for the afternoon
chores: feed and water the young goats, hogs, cattle, chickens, bucks, cats and dogs; collect eggs; give whey to the pigs and haul alfalfa
to the feeders for the milkers. And then it was time for the second
milking of the day. I was always drawn to the chickens, and happily
re-filled extra waterers, collected the feed, grit, egg basket and
cheese scraps into the cart to ramble down the hill to the hen's valley.
At each hen abode we replaced waterers, moved and refilled the outdoor
feeders, replenished the contents of the grit bowl and headed inside to
collect eggs and survey mischief. The mayhem progressed through the
season to include: pecking laid eggs, laying eggs outside the nest boxes
(floor, below the roost, corners, tall grass...), brooooooooding and
escaping. I'd like to note that these ladies take the art of escape to a new level.
Part boredom, the search for better bugs and the chicken humor
conspiracy - these girls spent more time outside the fence than inside.
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| chicken house one |
There is just so much to love about chickens, it's
hard to imagine a farm without them. There's a good reason why every
farm doesn't have a laying hen enterprise though: despite all their
value measured in humor, hand warming, feather donation and beauty -
it's hard to make a profit with small-scale egg production. Between ever
increasing feed grain prices, the cost of day old chicks or pullets,
cartons and (heaven forbid!) your time, the five dollar price tag for a dozen
beautiful orbs at the farmers' market may not cover the true cost. Sigh.
Of course no farm enterprise should exist beyond the planning stage
without black in the bottom line, but it's hard to image grassy green
fields, cloud-pocked blue skies and classic red barns without the
feathered trouble makers in the picture.
A few reasons why chickens earn their feed, even when they don't earn their keep...a list...
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| chicken house two |
The way the ladies flock to the nearest edge of the
fence and squawk hellos at the first sound of the afternoon chore cart
wheeling down the hill. I feel like a rock star each time. The football
player-like squat and run-in-place of the Bovans, so tame! Instead of
running away from you, these girls run toward you, crouch and then
prepare to be picked up. The lack of tailfeathers on the Americaunas as
they begin to molt, they don't seem embarrassed one bit. The brooding
ladies, the same few every time, who huddle in their nestboxes to hoard
the clatch's eggs. They don't know there is no rooster on site to
fertilize the gems below their warm bodies, but they persist. Each time
they make an evil sounding hiss, and either peck my hand or escape out
the skinny space behind the nesting boxes when I reach in to collect the
eggs under their rumps. It's the same drama, on repeat. Of course,
there are the rebels, truly free range, who live in the barn. They snack
on cat food, scratch for maggots in the barn floor straw, mingle with
the the sheep and deposit eggs in the haymow. I've caught two nesting
for the night in a small tree, quite a sight to behold at dusk. Of the
highest importance is the fact that chickens give us eggs, the daily
basket of white, buff, chocolate, pale blue and
olive green prizes bouncing in the cart as we travel up the hill. A
miracle for which I thank them (in person) endlessly.
A few chicken antics deserve more than just a few words...
I
am convinced, after this season, that these fine fowl have sufficient
brainpower to create and enjoy a specific breed of chicken humor. It
looks something like this. Knowing full well the farmers prefer for the chickens to overnight in the houses, and that regular efforts are taken to accomplish this, the
flock conspires and nominates one to three lovely ladies to escape for
the day. The job of the escapees is to lure the farmer into chasing them
in a completely futile attempt to catch the girls and return them to
their house. Imagine a full grown adult, running in circles (or zig
zags), slightly bent over, and using an enticing voice for "Here
chicky-chicky. Come on, I know you want to come back to me." The
remaining hens inside the fence congregate at the fence line to
enjoy the entertainment and squawk with delight. I try to negotiate
compromise every afternoon, to no avail.. I am sure this is how they
contrive their daily giggles.
Beyond
the laughter conspiracy, it has been well noted that some chickens eat
the eggs in their very own house. As the season progresses, this
phenomena seems to worsen. At first, I would find a wet, yolky mess in
the bottom of a nesting box. Most likely a sign that someone acquired a
taste for egg insides, through an accidental crack or intentional peck.
Then the yolky mess increases, someone is acting intentionally. Next, a
few brave souls swarm the egg basket at collection time. As the season
wears on, they peck at the eggs in the basket, despite the
presence of a large human shoo-ing them away. Then the procedure turns
to ultimate mayhem - a mix of shoo-ing, protecting eggs as they are
placed in the basket and breathlessly crossing your fingers to avoid
cracking any extra shells through the chaos.
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| chicken house three |
And some of the eggs that
avoided being pecked, and ended up in the basket and safely back to the
house were huge. Huge. Early in my time at the farm, I noticed some
extremely large eggs during harvest. Really big eggs. I mean, bigger
than the biggest jumbo egg you see in the grocery store. Too big to fit
into a carton without cracking the shell. Upon preparing these eggs at
home, I had the great joy (over and over) of discovering two yolks slip
out of one shell when cracked over the hot cast iron pan. A wonder indeed.
Many other people were eating these eggs and noticing the joy of the
double yolk. Then the questions started. Diana and I pondered chicken
twins while down at the farm, Nikki and I wondered at home, and regulars
at the farmers' market starting asking questions too. Why two yolks?
Why are the eggs so big? Can chickens have twins? Of course, this
brought on research and instant proof (a la
YouTube)
that indeed both yolks in a double yolk can be fertilized to form two
chicks. Two totally separate chicks. Twins, in fact, in most cases. Phew
- mystery solved and the spellbindingness of chickens increases, and I
still can not restrain my excitement when I see a double yolk in the
pan.
{Just
a warning, there's a graphic description of the nature of nature below. Skip the following paragraph if you don't like to
hear about death or anatomy. Do read on if you are fascinated with how
nature works.}
Toward
the end of the season, as the afternoon shadows came sooner and
steeper, and the landscape burnt with the fire of yellow leaves,
predator attacks in the chicken valley increased. I'd notice a puff of
feathers outside a fenced area, or inside. On one of my last chicken
runs, Diana slowed the tractor as she passed me en route to the barn
just long enough for me to hear, "There was a predator in the chickens."
I could see the explosion of white feathers, like the contents of a
burst pillow, that tipped her off at the last chicken house of the day. I
wasn't sure what to expect up close. I did see, though, a gaggle of girls, her
very own kin, swarmed around the feather pile. As I swung my leg over
the fence, a leghorn ran toward my feet, depositing a detached head,
comb and all, at my feet. Walking up the short hill to the bird's
remains, and shoo-ing away the hovering ladies and insects, I instantly saw the chicken body was cleanly slit open, an exact gash top to bottom, exposing. Most likely caused by the sharp
talon of a predatory bird. (I don't know my birds well, so I call these
birds "large birds of prey I should know the name of"). I bent over in
amazement, in awe of this first person internal anatomy lesson, the chest peeled wide open. I knelt
down to inspect further, in absolute amazement. And then I noticed it. A
peek of white buried, giving way to a view of a wholly formed
egg still inside this recently alive hen. It appears she was stopped
before she laid today's egg. This is a picture my mind will not soon
forget. Stark, beautiful and still miraculous.
{P.S. It's ok to start reading again if you took a time out.}
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| chicken house four |
I
could, clearly, go on and on about the chickens. The goats too if given
enough time. For now, my white cheesemaker smock, freshly washed, will
hang on the hook in the cheeserie for the last few batches of cheese
made this season. My farm boots flipped upside down on the boot rack
outside the mudroom door. This may be the end of one season, but
undoubtedly not the end of the stories and farm planning. I am so
excited to return for more next spring, in time for February's kidding
season - with so much more to learn in the second go round.
- - - - -
In the mean time, I get to warm my writer's chair, steep plenty of tea
and dream for the farm-to-come. The short days of the winter months will
be filled with writing, the other job that keeps me plenty busy, snow
adventures and farm planning.
Keep
posted for (with much hope) more frequent posting in the months to
come. Brewing updates, cider press stories, quince detective tales, the
vegan footprint and a peek at the use of agricultural plastics - just a
few of the topics on deck - and, of course, more farm stories. The Pens
to Pasture series will hit the blog soon, along with at least one other
regular feature. And, if all goes as planned, the blog will get a smidge
of a makeover. Fun times ahead indeed.
Enjoy the
transition to winter, and the snow where you already have it. As usual,
we love your comments and are happy to write about any (food related)
topic you request.
Slow Hand Farm ~ Portland, OR
