house and garden

We have been quite busy the last couple of weeks here on the "farmette." Above you can see our latest major home improvement project: changing out stained, nasty carpet in the living room for painted flooring. We love the result, and swear the air quality is exponentially better, but still have the last 10% of the project to do...the most difficult part, I'm learning. I'm also in the process of stripping out the kitchen entry way and giving that (tiny) space a much needed makeover. I feel the home improvement inertia and think I need to just roll with it.

The garden work is also taking up huge swaths of time. Spring food is coming in, we are getting lots of perennials in the ground, and trying to stay on top of the sheet mulching game. "Speedy," the other of the mystery chickens, was a major hindrance to this work, so she was transferred (via stroller ride with Elise) up to Grammalis. She is happy in her new home, and we are happy to visit her there.

A quick story to end: Elise was picking spinach in the garden a few days ago. I didn't want the spinach to end up in a wilted heap who-knows-where, so I reminded her that the job wasn't finished with picking - she needed to wash and spin it and put it in the fridge. I went on about my garden business, fully expecting to trip over the wilted heap in an hour or two. A bit later, I went into the house and heard Elise in the bathroom. I went in and asked what she was up to. As she replied, "washing the spinach" I took in the scene in it's entirety: Elise on her stool at the sink, sink filled with water, spinach floating in the water, and Elise holding a single leaf in one hand, using her toothbrush in the other to scrub the thing. Gotta love that little farmhand.

polly

For those of you who didn't know, we involuntarily (but happily) adopted two mystery chickens early this past fall when an unknown stuck them in our coop while we weren't looking. One of them was in bad shape and faster than any chicken I'd ever seen and the other was a bantam, a tiny thing I really doubted we had any use for. The latter, however, proved to be the best pet the kids could have asked for. I'm using the past tense because this week, Polly, as she came to be known, went missing...probably the victim of some unknown predator in the neighborhood. This loss was felt more deeply by me than I would have expected...I can still see Elise carrying the bantam around the farm, talking to her and singing to her...

a red plate affair

I felt I should write a quick post post-Thatcher regarding his...ahem, consumption. He was salted a day in advance, stuffed with an organic lemon, slow-roasted and served on our family's celebratory red plate. Quite chicken-y. Quite tasty. And despite his breast looking inexplicably small compared to what we're used to seeing on our occasional Trader Joe's bird, Thatcher provided enough white meat for our young family of four. He did dress out (is that the right way to say it??) at just over 4 pounds, afterall. But quite strange, in all honesty, being so close to your food. I had trouble not seeing the poor guy in my mind's eye while eating...his distinctive personality was a curse for me in that regard. For that reason, eating a freshly gathered egg isn't the same as that once breathing animal crowing about your yard. Future edibles may need to be the dolts of the flock until I can habituate...

On a related note, I've been thinking about an occasional post called "mostly local" where I'll write a quick note about our family's meals and give a recipe...maybe this would answer that question I've heard asked about us before: "What do they eat, anyway?" Well, a week ago, we ate Thatcher. Just like the kids told everyone we would.

Spring Chickens

March 2nd: and all of a sudden there is the promise of spring lingering in the air. A week ago, there was still a significant portion of our land covered in snow. Two weeks ago, ice cycles hung in lengths of two and three feet from our gutters. But, today, the snow is only present in remnants, packed hard into ice by tires and feet. Winter’s hold – begrudgingly – is beginning to loosen. I’m sure somewhere a witch has been eliminated and gone too is her ghastly spell.

Accordingly, Anna and I are emerging from the winter doldrums. I was sitting on the couch this past Saturday, consumed with the coming Sunday, when Anna came to me with the calendar in her hand. “Look at this,” she said exuberantly, pointing at one and two word messages written in tangerine. “Monday is March 1st, and you know what that means.” I smiled; if I didn’t know I couldn’t help but see the words “plant peppers” scribbled in that first box of the month.

The entry to our house, which serves as mud room and art room and nursery, now has over two dozen old yogurt cups full of deep dark soil, and in each cup of dirt a seed is planted. They are collected upon a changing table that once used for changing the soiled diapers of Wyatt and Elise, and they sit underneath the warming glow of a heat lamp. Much to the dismay of our neighbors that lamp’s bulb is red, which makes the northeast corner of our home radiate like an Amsterdam brothel. Indeed, there is the promise of sex, but only the botanical kind. Soon – we hope – we will be overrun with the prosperity of life.

Meanwhile, I am afraid that Anna has forgotten her first love. She thumbs through the pages of a magazine that royally displays every different breed and species of laying hens and broilers. She has marked the pages with multi-colored stars, noting special birds like a scout exploring hidden talent. I finally divulged her growing passion the other evening, taking a seat next to her on the couch while she ogled over the poultry. “See, I’m thinking this one will be good for laying eggs, but what’s great about it is that they also can be butchered.” I felt, for the first time, the warm body of a chicken in my left hand, my right holding a knife firm against its ruby throat – trying to steady myself to spill its blood. And I thought digging into the wet muck of a spring garden was going to teach me about the carnality of life!

The chicks are set to arrive on March 28th, which means we have less than a month before we reach the point of no return. The same room that now houses the yogurt-cup planters will eventually house twenty some odd pulsing, squeaking, pillows of fluff. Anna – of course – could give you their names (all derived from our deceased relatives) and their descriptions.

From the day they arrive, we will have essentially two months before we will have to provide them both shelter and forage. The second necessity will not be much of a problem given the open acreage. We also have hopes of using them around our garden – feeding their growing appetites and scratching talons with the bugs and pests that could lay waste to the crops.

Shelter, hopefully, will also be fairly easy to provide. Anna – when she is not looking through the chicken magazine like I use to look at the JC Penny catalogue before Christmas – has been investigating the most efficient, most economical and most resilient forms of movable chicken coops. She has been greatly aided by the experience and tutelage of Joel Salatin, about whom many of you already know and the rest of you would be wise to discover. Anna’s modified design of his transportable coops measures around 10 ft. by 5 ft., and is complete with a back half for the birds to roost and lay in individual houses.

We talked a fair amount about what materials to use the other evening – keeping our mind attentive to both weight and durability. Any of you with experience are welcome to add your thoughts. Actually, that last sentence may as well be applied to the whole of our adventure as we move forward into spring. We are fresh with optimism as the days grow longer and warmer … and very much in need of ongoing guidance, encouragement and wisdom. It won’t be long before those pretty little birds, which have already flown off the pages into Anna’s heart and mind, will land in our laps.

~Wes