Farewell to the Feral (Chickens)

After a night of hard rain (1.6" by dawn), the lingering clouds cleared and the weather reached the mid-50s! A heat wave!

Phil ran up to Esmont to deliver some invoices (whoo whoo!), and when he came back, we decided to process the feral chickens. Yesterday evening Phil had captured the remaining birds outside the pen (they get really slow, both thinking and moving, after dark), so we were ready.

First, he transformed our garden cart into a handy carrying pen (above and below, in action). This was brilliant: last time we processed chickens, Isaiah and I spent probably an hour running back and forth from their pen to the killing cones. This way, Phil had a way to transport them all at one fell swoop.

Joe watched Phil's progress, holding the last eggs these chickens will lay. He held them carefully until he needed to climb some stairs: he needs his hands for that, so he relinquished them at last.

Phil managed to get most of the chickens on his own; he even sustained minor lacerations by an assertive rooster. Then I tried to help, by climbing in the pen with him. The cagey caged birds knew a lot of tricks (one even managed to escape by flying past Phil's shoulder!), but of the 25 penned up, only three got out during the capture. One Phil snagged as it walked by (he has amazing fast-twitch muscles, I tell you).

One he plinked with the .22 (and I rejoiced when I heard the sound!).

And one remains on the lam.

While I worked inside, Phil methodically killed them all and hung them to age a bit while he ate lunch. Many of them feel small and light, but a few feel fairly good-sized. We aren't sure, but maybe six of the 25 are original laying hens that weren't content to stay in their pen; the rest are the offspring of the broody hens.

We've been having some trouble keeping our camp stove lit, which turned out to be the regulator. Incredibly, Phil had a spare regulator, and after a small delay, our "redneck scalder" was ready for action.

Sadly, our super expensive plucker is not working well, either. So Phil spent nearly as much time plucking feathers as I spent processing chickens. Below, you can see the first bird (the one killed with the .22) as it reached me.

I take off the heads and feet, cut out the oil gland on the tail, remove the windpipe and esophagus (and crop, filled with grain because they ate this morning), cut off the neck, and then open up the bird and remove the innards. Being very careful to watch the vent to make sure no "femat" (fecal material) comes out with the extra pressure on the colon, very careful not to burst the gallbladder, and especially making sure not to puncture the intestines.

For those who know that I fainted when I lost a tooth, the fact that I can write so factually about blood and guts is almost miraculous. (I took a photo of the bucket when I was done, but it's pretty nasty, so be thankful I don't post EVERYTHING).

Nevertheless, we both really dislike such work. It's smelly, it's a bit depressing, it's physically demanding. I'm extremely thankful we don't need to do it every day.

There were some surprises for me, having just done three batches of eight week old meat birds in the past. First, on opening the body cavity, the color of fat (and the quantity!) was surprising: so yellow!

I'm assuming that's from all the bugs and grass these birds ate as they grew up, unlike the lazy Cornish Cross that do little but sit and eat.

The membranes, too, seemed a bit different; the length of the neck a bit different; the size of the birds overall: much smaller; the quantity of popular white meat: almost nil. The Cornish Cross, having seen the alternative, are really the ideal meat bird: easy to process (some birds had such tough tendons on their feet I could hardly get them off!), fast growing, very meaty. Not very natural (since they cannot breed, but must have chicken AI), but still: they provide a lot of chicken for a comparatively low cost.

As I reached into one especially fatty bird, I was amazed to find my hand covered in what appeared to be egg yolk. We've had about one egg a day lately from the penned birds (so one out of 25 is laying consistently), and I had found that one. Too bad, like the goose that laid the golden eggs, in order to discover which chickens are productive, they have to die. Too bad the rest were so lazy.

Anyway, I was amazed to find a few gelatinous eggs still intact. How these egg yolk sized orbs become hard-shelled, yolk and white eggs is a miracle, I think.

The last chicken I did today also had eggs in it, so maybe the two birds had traded days. I think one egg was ready to be laid tomorrow: notice the one that is larger and whiter.

We finished processing after 17 birds: Phil had lost feeling in his toes. I, thankfully, had chosen to work in the motor home today. Despite the promise of weather in the 50s early on, the temperature dropped quickly, and was in the low 40s when Phil started his plucking, dropping several more degrees before he was finished. By the time I had finished my 17th bird, it was time to milk.

Dear Bianca today returned to her 11+ pounds of milk. I am so grateful. She is a good, good cow. I realized recently that she probably kicked so much in the beginning because I pressed my head into her flank, to see if she was going to kick. So she did. I try not to touch her, except her udder, and I don't speak to her while milking (though I praise her before and after), and I think she prefers that. I am very other, after all.

The boys, happily, played all day. Several hours were spent, surprisingly, with the Duplos. The older boys made this "Man with a Top Hat," and felt quite proud.

It is so, so nice to have Phil back to farm work.

Little to Say, But Wanting to Speak

Phil, former roommate Kevin, Isaiah, and Abraham all on the gun range on Thanksgiving.

I have missed the creative outlet blogging offers these last weeks that little has happened.

Phil finally (finally!) finished his major design project, and woke today to a drizzle and a sense of what do I do now?

One priority is to off the animals we don't much like (the bucks come to mind); that, though, is much more pleasant to do in slightly warm weather without precipitation. Maybe later this week.

Another priority is to deal with pasture. But to start fencing? Or to clear brush while there are no leaves? That's a hard question to answer.

While we were pondering the best course of action, Butch stopped by. I got some kimchi and gingered carrots to start their fermentation process while we all sat in the motor home and talked. It is so pleasant to have good neighbors. And I am excited to taste the results of my own lacto-fermentation. We buy out the sauerkraut at Whole Foods every time; it's time to try making it myself.

Phil went over to get the backhoe for the tractor, and then Butch brought some hay, and by the time we'd eaten lunch, it was about 3pm and drizzly.

Phil decided to file papers today and clean up his office. A good idea, and one about a year overdue.

I finished planting all the garlic I want to. Joe went out with me yesterday, and would help me "hide" each clove.

With the more chilly weather, the boys, understandably, don't wish to go outside much. I am thankful that Christmas approaches: they are having a bit of difficulty finding activities to entertain themselves. Our 100 or so episodes of Adventures in Odyssey play almost nonstop, and because of that, we know them all really well by now.

They entertain themselves at times with breaking out into mass dance moves, usually directly prior to bedtime.

Or they find creative pastimes, like stickers. I think I used to put stickers in albums, and look at them. Boys, though, are different creatures.

Silly boys.

Creative, though. Jadon helped with the one below.

Over Thanksgiving, we went out and saw not only the green sheen on the neighbor's land, but, up close, even the clover is sprouting! Rye and clover, a great mix, coming up well. And with another two inches of rain forecast for this evening, I'm thankful to have any roots at all holding up the hillside. (The photo below was from the previous week: the rye continues to grow steadily, and the hillside is more green now than the mere hint here.)

How to Lose Milking Production in a Week

During the week I was dragging with strep throat, we left Bianca and all the animals to be together in the combined pen. I was thankful for the extra rest.

Imagine my chagrin, however, when we began to milk Bianca again and found that her production had dropped from about 12 pounds a day to 9 pounds! Even though her swiftly growing Beatrice had free access, apparently Beatrice does not need as much as we managed.

How frustrating, to lose 25% of production in a week of laxness!

The bucks have again joined Bianca; Phil shut Bianca and I into the milking pen this evening, and I happily began milking, apart from the bucks. Midway, I looked over to find the bucks slinking under the pen, like hairy serpents. Thankfully, they didn't pay much attention to Bianca or me; even still, I am eager for their demise.

Further, we are unsure how to impregnate our two cows. The optimal time is in the next month (mid-December to mid-January), and at this point, we haven't seen any signs of heat from either cow. And, with early winter now upon us (just in the last few days), early morning was 20 degrees, and I really have little desire to stand around for 20 minutes and watch for signs of heat.

Besides, although I ordered semen straws a month ago, I have yet to hear from the association, so even if I HAD seen signs of heat, I would have no way to capitalize on it.

A bull would solve these problems; a bull would be good. But there are few Milking Devon bulls for sale this time of year; Phil has no idea when he would be able to go to get a bull; our fencing is not necessarily prepared for a bull.

It's a conundrum, what's the best thing to do.

I continue to plant garlic in my spare time: I prepared and planted a couple beds yesterday.

Shout Out to My Charlottesville Friends, and All Who Might Visit

Our friend, Zach Bush, recently opened a health center in Scottsville. After a decade up at UVA, first in residency, then a year as chief resident, then a fellowship, he came to realize that the medical profession focuses on symptom suppression, rather than healing.

He has diabetics who come to him and are cured.

He has psych patients come and get off their drugs.

As we talked yesterday, he has success with endometriosis, with PCOS, with bi-polar, with testosterone issues. He has people successfully lose weight, get off statins, feel better in 72 hours.

As a small, independent doctor, he wants to know his patients. Because he's no longer under the shield of a larger practice, he has the option to have 90 minute consultations.

This is the sort of health care I support. If you are local, come support it, too.

If you're not local, come visit. He has patients in New York, who make the trek because his methods work. A personal consultation, with occasional follow up visits or phone calls: even twice a year would be productive.

Find out more, or make an appointment, at http://www.revyourhealth.com/.

A Thanksgiving Tale, or The Return of the Roommate

A few years ago, back in Boulder, we had two young men live with us for two years. Kevin moved on then, but Rivers stayed another year, and got to witness the early transition of the Lykosh five from suburbanites to homesteaders. When we got our first batch of chicks, he sent an email to Kevin, to alert him to the new life in the living room.

Kevin said that, when we had Thanksgiving on the farm, let him know and he would come.

That was probably early 2008. We hadn't moved in 2008, and last year we were away with my family for the week. But this was the year.

I experimented with the best recipes using our own meats, and from Wednesday to noon today, we've enjoyed a smorgasbord of pork sausage stew, lamb meatloaf, bacon and eggs, roast chicken, home-cured ham, and sundry milkshakes and smoothies to round out the high-protein diet. How pleasant to have food to share.

We talked and went on the trail of Thomas Jefferson (we walked around the Rotunda at UVA, and were stopped at the visitor center of Monticello, unable to get closer since we were unwilling to pay for a tour); the guys shot rifles and hiked around.

For the actual Thanksgiving meal, I had been planning to simply have a chicken, since our toaster oven has a hard time with anything much larger than that. But the Bushes invited us to their family celebration. Kevin and Doug had an extended jam fest on the guitar; Phil and I got to talk and talk, for eight hours, with our dear friends we don't see often enough.

The seven children played together happily: football, flashlight high and seek after dark, various imaginative games interspersed.

We are thankful for a day off, to celebrate with friends. We have much to be thankful for.

When Ill, Peel Garlic

I have been a bit ill the last few days, running a bit more slowly, feeling a bit nasty. Not wanting to eat. All of us got something, but only Phil got it badly (though 36 hours of sleep healed him up); Abraham has taken extra naps; jadon had oozy eyes; Joe apparently has a sinus infection that only manifests in oozy eyes and runny nose.

And I have had not much to say, and we've not done much around the farm, as we both frantically try to meet deadlines with our city jobs.

We had run so desperately low on hay last week, due to circumstances beyond our control, we ended up combining all the animals so the one partial haybale could feed them all. So I haven't milked since last Thursday. Beatrice went right back to nursing from her mama, so I have good hope that, when we do separate the animals again, she will still be well in milk.

However, November is fast running out, so on Saturday I pulled out my stored garlic. I had intended to plant all the cloves I grew this last year, and so increase my production dramatically. However, I have neither time nor inclination to plant twelve raised beds of garlic right now, and as I peeled cloves, I realized how few of them were really nicely large and plump. So I planted the plump ones, and have the smaller ones, the ones that, if a recipe called for "three cloves of garlic" would actually need about eight cloves, ready for our personal consumption. I got two and a half pounds in the ground and felt very pleased.

On Sunday, because our sicknesses were not getting better, the boys and I stayed home all day. I spent the day peeling my final variety of garlic, about 25 pounds worth.

I created four piles: the large cloves for planting (foreground), the yet untouched garlic, the too-small garlic (in bowl), and the wrappers and centers. In retrospect, it was, perhaps, not the most prudent to peel garlic all over my bed, but, well, mentally I haven't been all there for a few days.

I had felt like something was in my throat. Embarrassingly prone to tonsil stones, I went to remove one and was amazed this evening to discover my throat covered in white patches. Ah! Strep throat! Never had strep throat (though tonsil stones would be indicative, I suppose, of chronic tonsillitis).

Initially I was pleased with my fortitude: here I have been preparing meals, and working, and planting garlic, and all this time I have had strep throat. People go to the doctor for strep throat! And I have said, "Oh, I'm only about 80% today." Yes, I am awesome.

Then, though, I had a sinking sensation. I checked the boys' throats and, yes, all four of them also had white patches. The last day or two, they have not complained of illness; they have not behaved really any differently than normal. So I think the right thing to say is, yes, they are awesome.

Green Stubble and Political Activism

Phil has been doing engineering work until the wee hours of the morning for the last week. Others of us in the family have been feeling a bit sick (coughs, goopy eyes, mild fever, runny nose), so I wasn't surprised when Phil, today, crashed. I am pretty sure he spent the day in the motor home, sleeping; I know I didn't see him. (I myself was feeling a bit sick for a few hours, but thankfully a nap and homeopathic Pulsatilla took care of the ickies for me.)

As we all wait for the land to be a little less sodden, Isaiah has been taken with the pattern blocks. For the last two days, he's spent all his free time creating fanciful snowflakes and elaborate structures. He stacked a vertical triangle eight levels high, and created this delicate balance of triangles, half-hexagons, and hexagons. Impressive!

Yesterday was a day to notice new growth. The pasture we grazed a few times this year delights us: the bucks are in there, keeping the weeds down, and the areas where we had hay bales are sprouting with soft green grass.

Also, the neighbor's land had shown no signs of growth—until yesterday. Although looking over the land still looks like acres of bare soil, close up, the rye is peeking out.

Perhaps most noticeable in the spot where Phil spilled some seed while calibrating the seeder (above), there are small wisps of green poking up all over. Very exciting.

The last rainfall knocked loose many more leaves. Although a few of the apple leaves persist, most have fallen off, as have most of the hardwoods in the surrounding forest. It's the season of burnt siena, soon to give way to the season of white and mud. Winter is coming.

Our Vermont cows are getting a lush winter coat. They know what's coming. (The Tennessee cows are still pretty smooth: I fear it will be a bit chilly for them this year, until they adjust!)

***
Did you know it is very easy to contact your Senators? I think there's a part of me that has always felt like Washington was like the moon, completely separate, extremely hard to get to.

But after reading again about the horrors of S.510, the "Food Safety Modernization Act" (read a great summary on my Dad's blog here), I looked up my Senator's phone numbers and gave them a call.

(Briefly, among other things, S.510 would make it extremely difficult for a small farm, like ours, to stay in business. It seems that a country's ability to produce food for itself should be a primary national security issue. To attempt to drive small producers out of business is foolish; to foist GM food on the public is unhealthy; to halt seed savers and gain a monopoly on seeds is wicked. It's a bad, bad bill.)

Here's how easy this is: to find your senator's phone numbers, put in your zip code at http://www.congress.org/. It shows you your people in the government, and gives you their contact info.

When I called my senators, I was given the option to leave a message or speak with a staffer. This, too, I thought was interesting: if I just wanted to voice my opinion, I could, rather anonymously. But I opted to speak with a staffer (asked for the one responsible for agriculture; both times, that person was already on the phone), so I left my message with the original answerer, and hung up, feeling like I was actually part of the political process.

No lengthy wait time; no need to be on the phone forever. Both calls took about five minutes. One office needed my name and zip code; the other, just a zip code.