Monday, April 23, 2012
King Kong, Soon to be Kung Pao
Le Jerk
I know that roosters are agro and bossy by trade, but a giant roo who attacks children, unprovoked from behind? Not happening.
Does anyone have a spare Australorp rooster hanging around? The laydies are ready for their new Romeo.
My Swingin' Shepherd
Goatherd, technically, but you know what I mean.
Bill turns the does out to graze, then passes the time playing his ukulele. It's become such a routine that when the music stops, the gals stop their munching and come thundering back up toward the pen, knowing that it's time for their grain.
Having that kind of peaceful rhythm with your animals is an amazing experience. I feel blessed to be surrounded with so much sweetness every day.
Thursday, April 19, 2012
Early Spring Planting in the Hollow
As much as I'd like to be putting some of my veggie starts in the ground this week (or even this month, for that matter) it is still much too wet here to work the ground for the new garden. So, I'm going to turn my focus to putting in a few trees and some ground cover.
I ordered a lovely assortment of heirloom fruit trees, the majority of which were unfortunately out of stock. So we probably won't be adding any new apple trees this year, dang it, but I did get my hands on a few cherry trees. Here's what I picked up today-
1 Black Tartarian Sweet Cherry
1 Montmorency Pie Cherry
2 Sugar Maples
2 Scarlet Oaks
1 Monkey Puzzle Tree
4 each of Kinnikinnick ("bear berry") and Wintergreen ground cover
The trees will be split between our orchard rows and our chicken yard, and the ground cover will all go in the chicken yard. We're trying to control the rate of erosion in the chicken yard by replacing some of the now-devoured grass with spreading ground covers that do well in clay soils. There aren't many of them. The fact that these produce a fruit that we may or may not be able to get to before the chickens do is just a bonus. ;)
I found out after I bought just the one Monkey Puzzle tree that you actually need a male and a female in order for the tree to produce nuts. Did you know that Monkey Puzzle trees made food? The cones contain up to a few HUNDRED nuts each, which, when roasted, are supposed to be quite tasty.
Unfortunately, the trees have to be upwards of 30 years old before they can bear fruit, so I won't be reaping my nutty reward any time soon. Their unique look, and the fact that they can live to be 1000 years old sold me on them anyway. Maybe my 10 times great-grandkids will like Monkey Puzzle nuts? I'll plant some for them, just in case.
I ordered a lovely assortment of heirloom fruit trees, the majority of which were unfortunately out of stock. So we probably won't be adding any new apple trees this year, dang it, but I did get my hands on a few cherry trees. Here's what I picked up today-
1 Black Tartarian Sweet Cherry
1 Montmorency Pie Cherry
2 Sugar Maples
2 Scarlet Oaks
1 Monkey Puzzle Tree
4 each of Kinnikinnick ("bear berry") and Wintergreen ground cover
The trees will be split between our orchard rows and our chicken yard, and the ground cover will all go in the chicken yard. We're trying to control the rate of erosion in the chicken yard by replacing some of the now-devoured grass with spreading ground covers that do well in clay soils. There aren't many of them. The fact that these produce a fruit that we may or may not be able to get to before the chickens do is just a bonus. ;)
I found out after I bought just the one Monkey Puzzle tree that you actually need a male and a female in order for the tree to produce nuts. Did you know that Monkey Puzzle trees made food? The cones contain up to a few HUNDRED nuts each, which, when roasted, are supposed to be quite tasty.
Unfortunately, the trees have to be upwards of 30 years old before they can bear fruit, so I won't be reaping my nutty reward any time soon. Their unique look, and the fact that they can live to be 1000 years old sold me on them anyway. Maybe my 10 times great-grandkids will like Monkey Puzzle nuts? I'll plant some for them, just in case.
Thursday, April 5, 2012
Blog Posts from the Edge
Day 7 of my captivity:
Hand, foot & mouth disease has invaded our once peaceable kingdom, and during a 9-day forced togetherness fest they call spring break, no less. We've yet to experience this elusive "Spring" phenomenon, and there most certainly hasn't been any sort of break. I'm confident that I'm rapidly approaching a mental break. Does that count?
Sick, bored, itchy children abound. Planned excursions to the out-of-doors have been scrapped due to inhospitable weather conditions and a highly communicable virus. We grow steadily more weary of one another's company with each passing hour.
Worse still, living conditions are deteriorating rapidly. Theinmates children insist on being fed DAILY, pushing the very limits of my once generous sense of hospitality. Dishes are accumulating faster than they can be dealt with, and other routine tasks are being neglected as well. An increasing amount of my time is being consumed re-directing children to find something to do and otherwise manually dislodging them from "my grill". Surely madness lies around the next corner?
I pray you, send reinforcements as soon as can be managed. Earplugs, chocolate, fortified liquor and calamine lotion by the gallon are our most immediate needs. Some sort of force field that separates the children from my person by at least 5 feet would be most welcome, but I am uncertain as to whether or not such technology yet exists. In lieu of that, perhaps a remote control mute button, or a spell that renders me temporarily deaf? Anything helps.
We have a minimum of 3 more days ofincarceration togetherness before the large, yellow, multi-passenger transports return to whisk my charges away to their institutions of learning. May their journey be swift and unhindered, delivering not only my bedraggled younglings to their destination, but delivering me from a slow, soul-crushing episode of cabin fever as well.
Three more days, three more days, three more days.....
Hand, foot & mouth disease has invaded our once peaceable kingdom, and during a 9-day forced togetherness fest they call spring break, no less. We've yet to experience this elusive "Spring" phenomenon, and there most certainly hasn't been any sort of break. I'm confident that I'm rapidly approaching a mental break. Does that count?
Sick, bored, itchy children abound. Planned excursions to the out-of-doors have been scrapped due to inhospitable weather conditions and a highly communicable virus. We grow steadily more weary of one another's company with each passing hour.
Worse still, living conditions are deteriorating rapidly. The
I pray you, send reinforcements as soon as can be managed. Earplugs, chocolate, fortified liquor and calamine lotion by the gallon are our most immediate needs. Some sort of force field that separates the children from my person by at least 5 feet would be most welcome, but I am uncertain as to whether or not such technology yet exists. In lieu of that, perhaps a remote control mute button, or a spell that renders me temporarily deaf? Anything helps.
We have a minimum of 3 more days of
Three more days, three more days, three more days.....
Monday, April 2, 2012
The Chicken Whisperer Chump
You all know by know that this is house is Casa de Nerd, right? We're nerds in the conventional sense - we're all rather socially awkward and covet and hoard books like they were bars of gold - but we're also farm nerds. We're the kind of goobers that do things like hang around in the poultry barn at the county fair ogling exotic ducks and chickens, or who relentlessly pick the brain of the poor lady selling goat cheese at the farmers market. What kind of goats do you have? How long do you leave your feta in the brine? Are your goats fed pasture or pellets? We collectively, can be a little intense.
We were budding farm nerds even when we still lived in city limits. Expanding our geek horizons was part of what lead us down this path to buying our 3 1/2 green acres. We wanted more chickens, turkeys, and maybe something with hooves, the more exotic, the better. Olivia with her Asperger Syndrome's signature laser-like focus on a narrow, often obscure topic, was the queen nerd when it came to birds, especially chickens. She literally memorized field guides and encyclopedias about all things bird, and coveted, above all things, fancy chickens.
So, when we moved to Boggy Hollow, one of the first items on our farm checklist was to greatly expand our flock of chickens. We pored over books, the Murray McMurray catalog, and asked our 10-year old resident bird nerd to weigh in. We decided on a mixture of some of the lower-maintenance, high-yield breeds like Australorps and Ameracaunas, with a couple of silver laced Polishes thrown in to appease Liv's appetite for fancy birds.
The workhorse breeds thrived. They started laying right on time, and most of them even laid through the winter. The Polishes... we're down to two.
We've done a little experimental breeding to see what we could see, and ended up with a goofy little fancy-pants brood of babies that we call the "Policaunas". Crested, jet-black hens that lay pale, pale blue eggs. And half of them are frizzled. Pretty funky! Still, Liv longed for the truly fancy birds; Suramas, Brahmas, Silkies, Silver Spangled Hamburgs, the fluffier, more feather-footed and floppily-crested, the better. Explaining to her that only no-nonsense chickens would work on a farm such as ours fell on deaf ears. Repeatedly.
So we finally gave in, a little.
Today I brought home 5 chicks from the feed store - 2 light Brahmas, 2 Silkies and one that we *think* is a white Ameracauna. Liv was on cloud nine.
With the altogether too fresh memory of our last clutch of incubator chicks' poop-funk smell permeating my back room, I sought an alternative way to brood this small clutch without sacrificing our indoor air quality. We decided to try a method that I'd heard of other folks doing with great success - sneaking days old chicks under a broody hen while she slept. Easy-peasy!
Not exactly.
Bill put our notoriously broody girl, Huckleberry in a separate run just before nightfall and set up a heat lamp as insurance in case the transfer didn't go so well. Then about an hour after dark, I went out to slide the babies under Hucky.
Huck, unfortunately woke and began wandering around in a daze. She sat on the babies a few times, whether or not by complete accident, I can't say. When I tried to pop an errant chick back underneath her, she rattle-clucked at me, which is a good indication that she is feeling protective of her nest. I watched them as unobtrusively as I could from outside the run. Things seemed to be going ok, when one of the Brahmas popped out from under Huckleberry and sat right next to her head, wailing out a panic peep that got the attention of every bird in the coop. Huckleberry gave the little one a few rather vicious looking pecks, and the complainer turned tail and burrowed back under Huck's breast. I'm assuming that she's going to be a no-nonsense, spare the rod, spoil the child-type of Mama, and not an annoyed biddy who will have run all of the babies off by morning. I'll be checking on them every few hours tonight as quickly and quietly as I can, just to make sure that no one is being picked on or left out in the cold. I'm already worried about the little black silkie. He's just a little too floppy for my liking. Hopefully some time sandwiched between his reluctant new Mama's breast and a bed of fresh straw will perk him right up. Morning is going to be make or break time for this little experiment in avian foster parenting.
The things that we do for our kids... just keep getting weirder.
We were budding farm nerds even when we still lived in city limits. Expanding our geek horizons was part of what lead us down this path to buying our 3 1/2 green acres. We wanted more chickens, turkeys, and maybe something with hooves, the more exotic, the better. Olivia with her Asperger Syndrome's signature laser-like focus on a narrow, often obscure topic, was the queen nerd when it came to birds, especially chickens. She literally memorized field guides and encyclopedias about all things bird, and coveted, above all things, fancy chickens.
So, when we moved to Boggy Hollow, one of the first items on our farm checklist was to greatly expand our flock of chickens. We pored over books, the Murray McMurray catalog, and asked our 10-year old resident bird nerd to weigh in. We decided on a mixture of some of the lower-maintenance, high-yield breeds like Australorps and Ameracaunas, with a couple of silver laced Polishes thrown in to appease Liv's appetite for fancy birds.
The workhorse breeds thrived. They started laying right on time, and most of them even laid through the winter. The Polishes... we're down to two.
We've done a little experimental breeding to see what we could see, and ended up with a goofy little fancy-pants brood of babies that we call the "Policaunas". Crested, jet-black hens that lay pale, pale blue eggs. And half of them are frizzled. Pretty funky! Still, Liv longed for the truly fancy birds; Suramas, Brahmas, Silkies, Silver Spangled Hamburgs, the fluffier, more feather-footed and floppily-crested, the better. Explaining to her that only no-nonsense chickens would work on a farm such as ours fell on deaf ears. Repeatedly.
So we finally gave in, a little.
Today I brought home 5 chicks from the feed store - 2 light Brahmas, 2 Silkies and one that we *think* is a white Ameracauna. Liv was on cloud nine.
With the altogether too fresh memory of our last clutch of incubator chicks' poop-funk smell permeating my back room, I sought an alternative way to brood this small clutch without sacrificing our indoor air quality. We decided to try a method that I'd heard of other folks doing with great success - sneaking days old chicks under a broody hen while she slept. Easy-peasy!
Not exactly.
Bill put our notoriously broody girl, Huckleberry in a separate run just before nightfall and set up a heat lamp as insurance in case the transfer didn't go so well. Then about an hour after dark, I went out to slide the babies under Hucky.
Huck, unfortunately woke and began wandering around in a daze. She sat on the babies a few times, whether or not by complete accident, I can't say. When I tried to pop an errant chick back underneath her, she rattle-clucked at me, which is a good indication that she is feeling protective of her nest. I watched them as unobtrusively as I could from outside the run. Things seemed to be going ok, when one of the Brahmas popped out from under Huckleberry and sat right next to her head, wailing out a panic peep that got the attention of every bird in the coop. Huckleberry gave the little one a few rather vicious looking pecks, and the complainer turned tail and burrowed back under Huck's breast. I'm assuming that she's going to be a no-nonsense, spare the rod, spoil the child-type of Mama, and not an annoyed biddy who will have run all of the babies off by morning. I'll be checking on them every few hours tonight as quickly and quietly as I can, just to make sure that no one is being picked on or left out in the cold. I'm already worried about the little black silkie. He's just a little too floppy for my liking. Hopefully some time sandwiched between his reluctant new Mama's breast and a bed of fresh straw will perk him right up. Morning is going to be make or break time for this little experiment in avian foster parenting.
The things that we do for our kids... just keep getting weirder.
Sunday, March 25, 2012
Embracing
My girls don't care about their hair. At 12 and almost 9 years, this separates them from many of their peers, and not in a good way. They really just can't be bothered to give a shit about it, which is both liberating and frustrating to me as their Mom.
It can be awkward, feeling like you have one foot in two worlds - simple, messy, homey farm life, and presentable, punctual, social "city life". I feel 100% comfortable wearing a tattered dress, muck boots and a sloppy pony tail in my front yard, but if I'm called suddenly to pick a sick kid up from school and have to venture out dressed in my farm shlubbery, I am beyond ashamed. I feel like I have to explain to every passerby that I don't really dress like this, but that I was just wrangling errant chickens back into their yard or turning a compost pile, all for the greater good of humanity. Why do I feel the need to explain myself? I know that the core choices in my life are right for me and mine, so why do I feel like I should apologize for not being what people have come to expect? Why can't I be more like my kids?
When I find myself worrying about how the girls are perceived by their classmates and friends, or by what passing strangers on the street may think of me and my parenting based upon my kids' funky attire and awkward yet bubbly social exchanges, I try to slow down and remind myself -
My kids climb trees.
My kids can milk a goat, catch a chicken and drive a nail.
My kids know that bacon was once a pig.
My kids can describe in graphic detail the complete life cycle of a chicken, rabbit or goat.
My kids catch salamanders and butterflies.
My kids would rather go to the County Fair than a Justin Bieber concert.
My kids get excited about rainbow colored carrots.
My kids love telling other kids about our animals.
My kids can drive a tractor!
My kids can identify birds by their calls and songs.
My kids don't know a thing about American Idol, the Twilight series or Jersey Shore.
My kids are proud of our life.
These girls are teaching me a lot about embracing what matters to you and satisfies your soul, and letting the rest of the world's BS fall away. I have a lot to learn from these monkeys.
It can be awkward, feeling like you have one foot in two worlds - simple, messy, homey farm life, and presentable, punctual, social "city life". I feel 100% comfortable wearing a tattered dress, muck boots and a sloppy pony tail in my front yard, but if I'm called suddenly to pick a sick kid up from school and have to venture out dressed in my farm shlubbery, I am beyond ashamed. I feel like I have to explain to every passerby that I don't really dress like this, but that I was just wrangling errant chickens back into their yard or turning a compost pile, all for the greater good of humanity. Why do I feel the need to explain myself? I know that the core choices in my life are right for me and mine, so why do I feel like I should apologize for not being what people have come to expect? Why can't I be more like my kids?
When I find myself worrying about how the girls are perceived by their classmates and friends, or by what passing strangers on the street may think of me and my parenting based upon my kids' funky attire and awkward yet bubbly social exchanges, I try to slow down and remind myself -
My kids climb trees.
My kids can milk a goat, catch a chicken and drive a nail.
My kids know that bacon was once a pig.
My kids can describe in graphic detail the complete life cycle of a chicken, rabbit or goat.
My kids catch salamanders and butterflies.
My kids would rather go to the County Fair than a Justin Bieber concert.
My kids get excited about rainbow colored carrots.
My kids love telling other kids about our animals.
My kids can drive a tractor!
My kids can identify birds by their calls and songs.
My kids don't know a thing about American Idol, the Twilight series or Jersey Shore.
My kids are proud of our life.
These girls are teaching me a lot about embracing what matters to you and satisfies your soul, and letting the rest of the world's BS fall away. I have a lot to learn from these monkeys.
Monday, March 19, 2012
And the winner is...
...the lovely and talented Megan (also known as commenter #1), at A Kitschy Kitchen! Congrats, lady!
Thanks again to the kind folks at Shabby Apple for sponsoring this giveaway. Enjoy your dress, Megan!
Thanks again to the kind folks at Shabby Apple for sponsoring this giveaway. Enjoy your dress, Megan!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)