Keeping chickens

"Keeping" describes exactly what we try to do with chickens. Not that chickens are difficult to care for: they aren't, but they are hard to hold on to. Two weeks ago, I heard an acquaintance lost all of her chickens except the rooster, and I saw this post on my facebook newsfeed this week:

I question why four people "like" this.

Watson does an admirable job keeping hawks away, so we haven't really had too much trouble with predators until this week.

Monday morning about 3 am, the dog must have heard something in the yard.  His whining woke Abe. Fortunately for our chickens, Abe is a light sleeper and got up with a sense that something was amiss. He went outside and sure enough, found a possum had been in the chicken coop.  Friendly (one of our very first chickens and a very sweet Rhode Island Red) had been frightened into a corner, wedged under some pressure washing equipment. That rotten possum had torn her tail feathers and left a serious wound on her (you know what?) chicken butt.

So Abe shot the possum with a BB gun, shushed the other hens and herded them as best he could back to their roost.  It turns out that our kitten-harassin' boot-lickin', chicken-chasin' coon hound loves our hens after all, and I am so thankful for my light-sleepin', BB-gun-shootin', possum-killin', chicken-protectin' husband. I don't even mind how redneck I sound to tell about it.

Friendly seems to be pulling through. So if I can have another moral to this story, it's to raise fat chickens.

• Fat chickens are harder for hawks to carry.
• Fat chickens can't easily fly or fit through fences (which, unless you leave the gate open - not that we know anything about that at our house - is how chickens encounter possums in the first place).
• Fat chickens don't have as many places to hide if they scatter at night and you have to search the yard in the cold looking for them.
• By the way, having a fat kitty has most of the same advantages. Get one!

the cold and catching up

Did I miss fall entirely?  Stores are pushing Christmas decorations but I feel like we hardly even had zucchini this year.  September, October and nine days of November have gone by while I've been all wrapped up in work. It's time for me to find a balance.

The greenhouse is re-insulated and sealed for winter weather just in time for the two freezes we've had this week.  I'm grateful that somehow the baby lettuces in our raised bed seem to have survived.

a meal most satisfying & how to roast a butternut squash

and garlic butter naan

On Monday it rained all day. It was the first cool day in Charlotte that really felt like winter. It was kind of a bummer.

So Monday afternoon Abe roasted the butternut squash that we grew accidentally from a seed in our compost.

There are two ways to roast a butternut squash, and if you don't know about them, you should, because butternut squash is delicious and inexpensive (or free! Grow your own for next year by accident):

1. The Fancy Way, where you take the time to peel and chop the squash before you roast it, therefore producing beautiful, perfect bright orange cubes like they would serve you in an expensive restaurant, and 
2. My Lazy Messy Way, which involves cutting the squash once from top to bottom, rubbing it with a bit of oil inside and out and roasting it whole face-down in a pan. The squash cavity can also be a good place to roast a bit of garlic, but only if you have a good pan: otherwise the garlic will burn and your squash will taste foul. Oh, and don't forget to scoop out the seeds and stringy bits -- that would be after you cut, and before you oil.

I'm a lazy messy kind of girl (no sense denying it). I'm ashamed to admit how my arms ache after cutting up an entire butternut squash, and also because the skin does come off easily and nicely after it's roasted.

Anyway, on Monday Abe roasted the butternut squash The Fancy Way with olive oil, Herbes de Provence and love. When I got home, dinner was simple:  We caramelized an onion and sauteed garlic, then added the butternut squash, a pinch of marjoram and vegetable stock. A quick turn with the immersion blender, and we had the best butternut squash soup I've ever tasted.

Only by growing some food for yourself can you become acquainted with the beautiful energy cycle that revolves from soil to seed to flower to fruit to food to offal to decay, and around again. You will be fully responsible for any food that you grow for yourself, and you will know all about it. You will appreciate it fully, having known it all its life.

-Wendell Berry, "The Pleasures of Eating." Please read the whole essay here.

We're jammin'

I can neither confirm nor deny whether my glasses have been cleaned since this picture was taken.

Yesterday these figs became jam with a little sugar, a little honey bourbon, and a little orange cognac liqueur.

I don't can often enough to remember what needs to be done: most importantly, to calm down. Part of it's the heat (stirring ten boiling pints of fruit pulp next to a vat of boiling water), part of it's the uncertainty (Why Will It Not Thicken?!), part of it's the frustration that I never wrote down how I did it last year. All of it is taken out on Abe. Poor Abe.

So this year while I tore out my hair with one hand (um, not the same hand I was stirring with) and yelled at Abe to sterilize the jars, I scribbled some messy notes on how to make fig jam:

I Wanna Jam It With Figs

makes 10 pints

5 lb. 4 oz. of figs (cleaned, with stems removed)
1/2 c. Grand Marnier/La Belle Orange
1/3 c. honey bourbon (obviously)
3 c. sugar
1 lemon
Use a vegetable peeler to remove the yellow zest from the lemon in strips, then dice. Chop or smash the figs, then let them mascerate with all the other ingredients in a heavy-bottomed pot for at least an hour. Use this time to sterilize your jars and lids and sample the honey bourbon (if anyone asks, you're doing quality control). Bring the fig mixture to a boil, stirring frequently. Wait for it to thicken. (This takes forever, at least an hour, or possibly not - but I can say that because these are messy notes, not an official "recipe.") Once it thickens to a jammy consistency, it's ready to go into jars. I leave about 1/4" of head space before capping. I use a hot water bath canning method and leave the jars in for 10 minutes.

And I always freak out over the ones that don't instantly seal when they come out of the water. But unless you did it all wrong, they just need time (up to 24 hours), and if I've never managed to mess it all up, your jams will be okay too.

Distract-o-duck!

I feel like I've been caught in a whirlwind the past few weeks - finishing up at two jobs, hosting a (wonderful!) new friend during the DNC and starting in my new position. Abe and I are figuring out how to do life from what feels like the beginning. New hours mean new bedtimes and setting new alarms, new work locations mean new traffic jams and new routines for everything: when and where to grocery shop, who starts supper and who feeds the animals. (Cash suggests having Watson for dinner.)

I'm still in the middle of my first week at my new position, so I'm really just ducking in. I don't think I'm quite ready to come back to a regular or frequent blog posting schedule.

This afternoon we're starting the fall garden, so I will try to get back soon with pictures and at least a brief update.

About a duck

Here is the thing about a pet baby duck: he is equal parts terrified of you and desperately in need of your constant company. And he's obsessed with feet. So you have to be very, very careful where you walk to avoid having a duckling literally underfoot.

bird not to scale: that is, he looks much taller in this picture than he does in real life.

We've only been together two days, but I'm very quick to make a list.

Things a duckling will do to your delight:

• Paddle his little feet in your bathtub
• Wiggle his little tail
• Flap his little wings (They are so little! Sometimes he tips over and needs help getting up.)
• Cuddle
• Eat bugs right out of the air as they fly by
• Provide hours of entertainment much cheaper than cable

Things a duckling will do to your dismay:

• Poop his little turds in your bathtub
• Poop his little turds in your kitchen
• Poop his little turds in your lap
• Poop his little turds on the stuffed bear that you got for him to cuddle.
• This is serious. There are a lot of little turds.

Here is some advice before you get a duck:

• Get a box for your duck. Make sure it's a box you don't care about because it will soon be full of poop. Even if you think you're a free-range duck kind of household, find a box. In the last 24 hours, I have learned that there is no such thing as a full-time free-range duck kind of household.
• Buy stock in paper towels. (*Not sustainable, but like I said, there are a lot of little turds. Almost enough to order these duck diapers.) (About duck diapers: you might think they're a joke like I did... until I got a duck.)
• Feed the cat. You don't want him getting any ideas.

You can see a tiny clip of Watson here.

Watson, I presume

I was feeling wistful about how grown-up Peso is getting and worrying for You, Internet, since this blog is so much more entertaining with baby animals around. Then I got a text from our friend Hannah, who was offering us her duck.

Abe said heck no, saw a picture and promptly recanted (Isn't that how everyone gets their pets?).

ohmygoodness, he snuggles!!!

If Abe had needed more convincing, this duckling's name is Watson, as in "Wat, Son, could be cuter than this face?"

Hannah dropped him off yesterday, so today I have a memory card full of duck pictures and Watson poop all over my floors.

Ode to Tomatoes

The street
filled with tomatoes
midday,
summer,
light is
halved
like
a
tomato,
its juice
runs
through the streets.
In December,
unabated,
the tomato
invades
the kitchen,
it enters at lunchtime,
takes
its ease
on countertops,
among glasses,
butter dishes,
blue saltcellars.
It sheds
its own light,
benign majesty.
Unfortunately, we must
murder it:
the knife
sinks
into living flesh,
red
viscera,
a cool
sun,
profound,
inexhausible,
populates the salads
of Chile,
happily, it is wed
to the clear onion,
and to celebrate the union
we
pour
oil,
essential
child of the olive,
onto its halved hemispheres,
pepper
adds
its fragrance,
salt, its magnetism;
it is the wedding
of the day,
parsley
hoists
its flag,
potatoes
bubble vigorously,
the aroma
of the roast
knocks
at the door,
it's time!
come on!
and, on
the table, at the midpoint
of summer,
the tomato,
star of earth,
recurrent
and fertile
star,
displays
its convolutions,
its canals,
its remarkable amplitude
and abundance,
no pit,
no husk,
no leaves or thorns,
the tomato offers
its gift
of fiery color
and cool completeness.

-Pablo Neruda, translated by Margaret Sayers Peden

Introducing:

This is a picture of the new office manager at Gonstead Family Chiropractic. The job's part time but there's potential for growth, and he's excited about the schedule (off weekends! off Wednesdays!) and the opportunity to do work he believes in. He started this week.

And this is the new Operations Manager of Changed Choices. (Me, not the cat, although I suspect Peso would do an excellent job promoting community partnerships and he's fascinated by "tweeting.")

These are the changes I mentioned before. I'm sad and scared and excited (and way more emotional than I realized. Has that ever happened to you?). I'm giving up my restaurant job and my housing and credit counseling position, starting something all new and looking forward to weekends off with my husband. I'm all over the place during this transition, so if I'm less here for a while, wait for me.

get what you need

I look forward to Saturday morning all week: to collecting the eggs from the chicken coop with Abe, driving to the farmer's market for juicy "Local Toms," and drinking coffee with the neighbors.

Right now I'm craving summer weekends and routine. I know exactly what to expect on a Saturday morning in August: hot and sticky humidity, coffee and a breakfast burrito, sleepy kitties and at least two loads of laundry.

Lately I've had to make some tough decisions and it feels like everything is changing. (A post on that is coming soon.) I've noticed this: As a kid I had no trouble identifying the things I wanted, but I wasn't in tune with my needs. As an adult, I easily identify my needs, but I have a harder and harder time knowing what I want.


taking a minute to smell the begonias

Summer

The pollen on a bee's wing,
His hum against the pane,
Are hints that Summer thinks of us,
Would woo us back again
To old beliefs we had in dawns,
In sunsets and in dew--
Before this hurry blotted out
The primal me and you.

-Nellie Seelye Evans

the other kind of hops

I've shown you the more animated hops we've grown at Carolina Backyard Farm. These hops are destined for a delicious homebrew as soon as they're dried out and sticky enough.

More information on growing your own hops here and here.

a little help with the laundry

Peso doesn't mind sorting the socks.

happy weekend, y'all

Lowes Foods supports local

Lowes Foods has a kinda/sorta CSA!  Their program is seasonal and started in June, but it's not too late to participate in the three week program or week-by-week. The cost would be about 2.00 per pound for the 6 week program, about $2.16 per pound for the three week option, and $2.32 to purchase week by week. Depending on how many more costly items (like blueberries) are included, that's very comparable to the farmer's market, and includes the convenience of making one stop for groceries.

From their press release: "Lowes Foods Locally Grown Club will feature six to ten varieties of assorted produce in each box that may include zucchini, yellow squash, green peppers, blueberries, sweet potatoes, cabbage, cucumbers, tomatoes, peaches and many other seasonal items. Customers will receive over twelve pounds of produce each week for the entire seven weeks, one three week period or for a single week. Customers simply sign up through Lowes Foods to Go, pay in advance for their subscription and pick up their box each Saturday in the Lowes Foods to Go pick up lane."

Lowes has partnered with a number of North Carolina farms and with Pilot Mountain Pride, which is an awesome aggregate organization of small farms in the Winston-Salem area. Formerly dependent on tobacco production, by banding together with "Pilot Mountian Pride," farmers have been able to retain employment and increase the viability of producing local food for their community. This video about their project isn't perfectly polished, but it totally inspires me about the possibilities for local food and small farmers.

A backyard attempt at technology. With pets!

We recently met a friend's 3 month old kitten who rivaled the size of our 8 week old Peso. Provided I can keep Franc out of his kitten kibble, I think our baby boy is well on his way to being the pet mountain lion of my dreams.

I get a lot of questions about how we're getting along with two humans, two felines and a hyperactive coonhound under one roof. I failed at blogger-video-uploading only six times before I gave up and created a youtube account so I could show you. Enjoy, and stay with me: the very best part is the end.

I've had the time of my life

Abe and I have been married for four years today. I'm finding it hard to write about our life together without using cheesy cliches. I'll just say that I'm every bit as happy with my choice of partner as I was the day I picked him.

photo by Ben Depp

"May you be in love every day for the next 20,000 days. And out of that love, remake a world.”

-Ray Bradbury

growing seeds from grocery store peppers

Homegrown peppers - second generation from Trader Joe's.
Also, I'm bringing back The Doily.

Everyone who sees these peppers thinks they're spicy. They're not - they're more like tiny sweet bell peppers. These were actually started from seeds harvested from Trader Joe's peppers - those cute mini tricolor pepper-ettes.

It's a bit of a risk trying to grow from commercial seeds (and illegal if the seeds are from Monsanto):  most commercial vegetables are hybridized so that they may not produce, and if they do, the vegetables will be a different variety. But since we'd already bought the peppers, we took a chance, planting a few of seeds from each color pepper (yellow, orange, and red).

Apparently when mini bell peppers are grown commercially, each color is grown separately - they're three distinct seeds with similar size, flavor and shape. As you can see, we got none of the lovely colors from any of the seeds, but we were lucky to get peppers at all, since it turns out store-bought bell pepper seeds are usually infertile.

Have you ever grown anything from the grocery store? A few gardening forums I checked out seemed to indicate decent success growing hot peppers (red chili, habaneros), since heirloom varieties are sold more commonly.

on becoming a morning person (with gratuitous baby animal pictures)

Look at this ferocious snuggling beast.  If you had a tiny animal this soft and sweet in your bed sleeping, you wouldn't want to get up, either.

But the truth is, I was an anti-morning person long before there were any cats in my bed. I hate to wake up so I only do it in a bad mood. (Can I blame lycanthropy? The grumpiness wears off by noon, and I'm generally a peach the rest of the time.) Abe has to set his cell phone alarm for both of us, because mine doesn't dare go off.

So you know that reputation farmers have for being up before dawn? I am not that farmer.

But I'm trying. Today I let Abe drag my sleepy behind to the gym at 6 am. I wasted 15 minutes rolling around on the bed whining struggled through 30 minutes on a recumbent bike, but most importantly I Abe survived, because I didn't kill him.
It wasn't that bad. I might try it again tomorrow. And then, who knows? Maybe before I know it, I'll be a morning person.

farm earnings year-to-date: one Peso

When I walked in the door after work Saturday night, Abe was waiting. "I've got a surprise," he said. Surprise indeed.

Abe found this scrappy little fleabag (now a.k.a. Peso*) walking in the street in the middle of the night. He was starving and incredibly friendly. His purr rivals the noise of a mac truck, and I'm not sure he's stopped using it since Abe brought him home. No kitty has ever been so happy to find a family.
With the aid of some friends who were staying over, google and graphic images of male vs. female kitten butts, early Sunday morning we came to the conclusion that Peso is a boy. That was confirmed yesterday by the vet, who found he's 6 weeks old. (He seems big for six weeks, so I'm hoping it turns out he's a baby puma. Please, let me dream.) Since then he's been:

• dewormed
• eating everything in the house
• flea-dipped
• thoroughly licked all over by Franc and Cash
• litter trained (we really really hope!).

I went digging around in my old blog in preparation for this post, because I was hoping I'd already written something about our monetary theme for naming animals.* I didn't find what I was looking for, but I did find sobering advice about taking in pets. (Also sobering? My old blog was much more hilarious than this one. I think the last two years I've had osteoporosis of the funny bone. Now I really need health insurance.)
*we have one.