Farm yard drama

We had an interesting farm yard drama play out recently. For background, I have to tell you that we lost our drake a few weeks ago. The guineas were putting up such a ruckus, I finally had to check on things (and with guineas, that's quite a lot of ruckus considering their usual noise-making machine). I found the six guineas looking on a beautiful red tail hawk that was standing in my driveway next to a very dead drake. I ran the hawk off and saw that he or she had a friend in the trees. On my way to an appointment, the only thing I could think to do was put him in a plastic bag and in the trash, poor guy. But I didn't want the hawks to see this as an easy picking ground for supper. It's not like they won't come back. They live here. The only thing I can hope is that the birds learn how to take cover when the hawks are around. I'm not yet convinced the birds are always that smart.

That leaves us with four female ducks with no male to herd them around and look out for them. Enter guineas. From there youngest days the guineas and ducks have hung out together from time to time, now they seem to always be together or close by. This morning in the pouring rain, the ducks were happily digging in the dirt with their beaks while the guineas stood nearby, complaining and huddled up but still staying close to the ducks.

A couple of days ago, Joan and I were sitting on the deck, relaxing and enjoying our view, when we saw the rooster, Hans, sidle up to one of the ducks and do his little dance around her. We are very proud to have a mostly gentlemanly rooster who attempts to seduce his ladies before mounting them, at least part of the time. He made a complete circumference and stood face to face with the duck. She even bobbed her head a little, the response they made to the drake when they were ready for him to mount them. We were wondering how this was going to play out when along came all six guineas. They calmly and quietly completely surrounded Hans, two of them standing solidly between the rooster and the duck. Hans stood stone still. They weren't making their alarm noise, just standing there quietly making a point. Their heads were moving around some, and some of them made the quiet whistling happy noise we love to hear. One guinea pecked Hans on the side of his head, lightly with no force or violence as if it were picking a piece of food off of him, and he stayed still. Shortly the duck just turned and wandered away. Then Hans crowed from the middle of the guinea circle, and the guineas began to disperse. Hans walked away as if nothing had happened, and all was quiet in the farm yard.

We watched this with amazement, asking each other surprised questions like, "did she just bob her head?" and pointing out astonishing details to each other like "that guinea just pecked Hans on the face." And at the end of the little drama saying "that was very West Side Story".  Since then we have taken to referring to the guineas as the ducks' bodyguards. Or maybe we should call them . . . would they be Jets or Sharks?

This was the only photo I managed to get.

Mamaw, green beans and Uncle John

Working in the kitchen, especially food preserving of any kind, usually brings my paternal grandmother (we called her Mamaw) to mind. My first experiences with canning and freezing food grown by your own efforts was through watching her.  She canned tomatoes, of course, beans,  corn, strawberry jam, blackberry pie filling and even pork. Damn, that was good pork. She didn’t use recipes. She’d done it so often, it all just came naturally for her. 

I took a photo of an old B&W of my grandparents. Forgive the quality, please.

I particularly remember sitting on her porch in a wooden porch swing with a bowl of green beans in my lap. We each had a bowl with a paper grocery sack more sitting beside us. There was a pot for the beans that had the strings pulled out and were broken into bite size pieces and a bag for strings and bad spots broken off. It didn’t take much concentration to string and break beans, so she told me family stories. Some of my favorite times with her were spent listening to stories of her family, my family.

She grew up in a big, farm family. She had seven brothers and two sisters (one of the sisters died when she was just a baby). One of my favorite stories was about her sister, my great Aunt Lucy and Lucy's husband, Uncle John. When they were young, John came to the house courting Lucy on Sunday afternoons. He drove a car, something I don’t think Mamaw’s family had at the time. He parked in back of the house and sat on the front porch with Lucy, probably in a porch swing like Mamaw’s. They sat together, sometimes talking, sometimes just sitting, for a couple of hours until it was time for John to go home for supper. When he left, it was his habit to run through the house and down the back steps, running all the way to his car. I imagine he had some energy to work off after sitting for a couple of hours with the love of his life, only holding her hand. “Papa would not allow kissing,” I can hear Mamaw saying.

At the time John and Lucy were courting, Mamaw’s brothers would have ranged in age from pre-teen to almost-an-adult teenager. Some of the younger ones liked to play practical jokes, especially on the young man who was threatening to take their big sister away. One Sunday afternoon they took the short wood steps, not much more than a glorified step-ladder really, away from the porch and replaced it with a wash tub full of cold water. When John left, running through the house and out the back door, he stepped off the back porch coming down hard into that tub of water, soaking his Sunday best suit. He jumped up quickly, trying to pretend nothing was wrong, and jogged on to his car with a slight limp. Mamaw’s brothers were under the porch trying not to laugh, but making just enough noise to get caught. “Papa was spitting fire,” Mamaw said. “He could’a broke his leg!” Mamaw wanted to be serious when she told me this story. She wouldn’t have wanted me to get the idea that it was okay to do something like that and maybe hurt someone. But she giggled every time she told it. She adored every one of her brothers and always laughed at their jokes.

Today I’m canning tomatoes, pickling okra, jalapenos and green beans, freezing some of the beans and making pesto. I’m pretty sure Mamaw never pickled jalapenos. I’m not sure if she ever tasted one. I’m sure she never made pesto. But my love of growing my own food, cooking, and especially my love of “putting up” the harvest is thanks to her.

this year's bounty so far

We think we had a hawk attack yesterday. When Joan got home from work she found a clump of guinea feathers still attached to a finger-sized chunk of guinea flesh on the coop floor. It was easy to figure out which guinea the feathers belonged to. As Joan said, it's the one that looks like she is missing something in back. You can't really see the wound because her wing feathers cover it, but it does look like she is missing a section of feathers and there is a small set of feathers on her back that jiggle a little like fringe when she walks. There were also enough red chicken feathers scattered on the coop floor to make her wonder if we were missing a chicken.
I'll give you some background on how we came to maybe have a hawk invade the chicken coop. About a week or two ago we decided to start letting the birds free-range during the day when we are at work. We keep the gate at the driveway closed, except for that one morning when we left it open accidentally and a neighbor called to let us know the ducks and guineas were out in the road before either of us had left for work. With a little encouragement, they all came back in yard, and the gate was closed. Mostly they seem happy to wander our property and stay close to home.
For the last few days, though, we've only been getting one or two eggs from six laying hens, and we started wondering if they are laying somewhere outside the coop and hiding the eggs from us. We've had that happen before with an earlier flock. So yesterday morning we decided to leave them in the coop again and see what happens. As we have in the past, we left an outside run open that is partially covered by a web of twine that Joan put together and under tree cover. We have left them that way during the day many times before without problems. They seemed to be under enough protective cover to be left alone. My biggest concern was that there were too many birds to exist happily in such a small space, and, when Joan sent me a text about the feathers I assumed the guineas and chickens had it out with each other. There is occasional animosity between the two species, even though they co-exist peacefully most of the time.
The other clue to the mystery, however, was that the birds had somehow managed to push open one side of the outdoor run and many of them were free-ranging when Joan got home. The walls of the run are eight foot by eight foot frames of 2X2 boards, not heavy, but bulky. We have a thick wire that we use to secure the walls to each other, but I hadn't made sure that was in place.
So we think that what might have happened is that a hawk landed on a tree limb close enough to the run to realize there was an opening he could get through, and he swooped down for lunch. He got a handle on a guinea, but she got away. We've decided that the younger roosters in the group must have teamed up with the guineas (a rugged breed) to run the hawk out; and maybe it was the hawk that pushed the wall out. Who knows. But he didn't get the guinea or a chicken. We still have twelve red chickens, six laying hens, five black ducks and six guineas, with only one injury.
Last night when the everyone bedded down, Joan brought the wounded guinea inside the porch, and we put ointment on it's ugly, red patch of torn skin (the wound is fairly large, about an inch wide and an inch and a half to two inches long - ouch!) to help healing and try to keep her from getting maggots. She slept back in the coop with her buddies.
This morning she is running around with her flock seemingly doing fine. The thing about all of these birds is that they pretend to be fine even when they are sick or injured to discourage predators. But the thing about guineas is that they are a feisty, hardy breed, and we think she might be okay. It turns out the birds are safer free-ranging when they have the room to avoid predators and the bushes and trees under which to hide from them. And maybe the hens are just having an off week of laying. We still only got one egg yesterday, but who can lay with all that racket going on? Today everyone is happily roaming our small farm again. We are giving the hens the benefit of doubt and hoping the egg count will pick up soon.

Goats!

I can't believe we've only had the goats for two weeks, okay, two and a half weeks. They are such a big part of my life! You could say, they control my life. Every morning my alarm clock goes off at 6:30, every morning except when I have to get up earlier. I feed the dogs and let them out. Then I put together my milking supplies and walk up the short hill to the goat pen. Dena (10 weeks old now) and Spike (8 weeks old) get a little grain while I milk Daisy. After milking Daisy I pour most of the milk into a water bottle and attach a nipple to feed Spike. I was not able to convince Dena to take a bottle when we brought them home so she was weaned  at 8 weeks. I'll give Spike a little longer before all the milk is all mine. Right now we mostly use our share of the milk instead of grocery store milk, in coffee and to drink. But I've made yogurt from Daisy's milk that is great with fruit and granola for breakfast. The milk is really good, as is the yogurt!

I've gotten much better at milking. Daisy is a small goat, a mini-Nubian, and has very small teats. I started off using a hand-operated suction milker. It was the only way I could get enough milk to feed Spike. But I practiced hand milking each time until I finally got to the point that I felt like I was more efficient than the milker. Well, maybe not more efficient, but I think Daisy and I are both happier with hand milking. Though I wouldn't say Daisy is exactly happy to be milked. She gets bored as soon as she is finished eating her grain and will periodically dance around a bit. She starts out leaning into me. At first I thought it was like a hug, the way a big dog will sit beside you and lean against you gently. But Daisy isn't leaning gently. She's pushing against me as if to say "get the hell off the milk stand; there isn't room for both of us!" When I refuse to move, she starts moving away from me, sliding her back side against the wall on the other side of the stand. No problem. That gives me more room to sit comfortably on the stand.

Here is a good place to mention that one of the reasons we got the goats so soon was to get rid of the poison ivy on the property, which is rampant. I've suggested naming the place Poison Ivy Acres. Joan doesn't think that would be a good marketing tactic if we ever decide to sell our produce. But that means that all day the goats are tromping around in poison ivy while they eat it. And I have to say, it is amazing how much progress they've made, but there is so much more. So if you want to pet the goats; and it's hard to look at Spike, especially, and not want to pet him or hold him and snuggle up to him; you are engaging with urushiol, the oil on poison ivy that causes skin irritation or inflammation.  So part of milking preparation includes wearing a long sleeve shirt and long pants to cover as much skin as possible. Joan and I are both recovering from rashes that happened before we started being quite so careful. But I have to say, the goats are worth it. As long as you wash any skin they have come in contact with right away with cold water and soap you will be fine.

When I started milking, I used the top pot of a Le Creuset double boiler instead of a bucket. It's a good size and has handles on the sides. I milk with my right hand and hold onto the pot with my left hand so I can pull it away from her legs when she starts dancing. That makes it less likely that she will kick it over or step in it. Who ever said "there's no use crying over spilt milk" must have been milking an animal that kicked over a half full pail (or more). It's not so much the loss of the milk, though that is very sad, as the loss of the time and energy put into getting that milk into the pail. And I wonder if the idiom "kicked the bucket" came about when a farmer came back to the house from milking and said "well, Bessie kicked the bucket again; want to help me fillet her?" I'm learning to be quick pulling the milk pan away from her, and I'm gaining the patience to wait for her to stand still so I can go back to milking. I've switched to milking into a Pyrex quart-size measuring pitcher. It also has a handle with the added advantage of a pour spout. One of the best ways to keep as much of the milk as possible is to stop periodically and pour it into a bottle or jar with a lid. The second time I came back to the house complaining of loosing milk because it was kicked over or stepped in, Joan asked "do we need to put up a WPA sign next to the milking stand that says 'Empty Often'?"

I get about 2 cups each time milking Daisy. About a cup and a half of that goes to Spike. He is a very energetic feeder. I sit on a four by four board that we've left up there for them to play on and hold the bottle up so he can lift his head to imitate suckling from his mother's teat. Sometimes he props himself on my bent knee with his front legs folded so that his knees rest on my knee and this is just too damn cute. He sucks away vigorously on the red nipple attached to an Aquafina water bottle, with drops occasionally running down his chin. He does not stop sucking until the bottle is empty, but as soon as it is he disengages and runs for the extra grain I've given Dena. Quite a little piglet, he is.

Every evening at 7 pm we repeat the process. If I am working too late to get home in time to milk, or have to be at work too early, Joan does the milking. But she seems to be much more sensitive to the poison ivy than I am, so she doesn't milk often, and she's gotten a Tyvek suit to wear when she does.

Joan's biggest role with the goats so far has been as their builder, especially building them a stupendous playground: a teeter totter, a balance beam and a multi-level climbing set-up.  They play king of the hill on the balance beam and use their heads to try to push each other off. As you can see, they've been on it a few times. Spike was climbing on the jungle gym before she even finished assembling it.

Breakfast for lunch

I was very busy this morning taking care of dogs, chickens and the garden before I even got breakfast, so I ate breakfast for lunch. I wanted biscuits but I don't have enough milk right now to make biscuits, but I do have beer! I've made beer bread before so why not beer biscuits? I looked on-line to see if anyone else has had that idea, and, of course, they have - notably Paula Dean, or perhaps her brother, since they are called Bubba's Beer Biscuits. I used her recipe and a couple of others as a guide and came up with the following recipe of my own. With my recipes you have to insert the word "about" in front of every ingredient line, because I'm not really a meticulous about amounts. When I was a kid my mother had me using the back of a table knife to carefully even off the top of every ingredient measurement, but perfection isn't really my style.

Beer Biscuits
2 cups of bread flour
2 heaping teaspoons baking powder
1/4 cup butter
1 teaspoon salt
1/2 can of beer
1 egg

My mix came out more like batter than dough. If you want a stiffer dough you can adjust to your taste.

I have flashback moments in the kitchen to memories of my grandmother every once in a while. She was my primary influence in both cooking and gardening. I had one of those today. I started out using 2 pastry knives (small spatulas? - I'm really not sure what they are called - wooden handle with a long, flat, metal - not sharp - blade?) to cut the butter into the dry ingredients. I said to myself, myself not being a patient person, "this blows, a fork would be quicker." As I mashed on the butter bits to blend them into the flour I could see my grandmother doing the same thing, only I think she used either margarine or shortening by the time I was old enough to watch her cook. The patience I could remember on her face as she gently and carefully mashed the fork tines into the flour reminded me that taking the time to do it right makes it better. I could see her smiling at me, handing me the bowl and fork and saying, "here, you try it" while she moved aside, probably to do something less tedious while I finished the task. She was patient, not stupid. If you've got a kid in the kitchen watching you cook, put her to work!

 So for lunch I had beer biscuits with my over-easy eggs (laid this morning), a few leaves of lettuce (picked this morning) and basil peach jam left from a batch I made last fall. Yum! (Okay, now I'm just showing off.)

I've been really busy since my last post. Moving to the farm:

While I've been unpacking and cleaning Joan has been building a new chicken coop.

Last week we received our fowl order: 12 New Hampshire Red chicks, 6 French guinea keets and 5 ducklings.

and we are watching them grow.