Marek's Revisited

What better time than Mercury retrograde to revisit old problems (as Californians, we have the obligation of referencing astrological happenings with every possible opportunity) and as long time readers of this blog well know, one of our biggest problems on the farm has been Marek's. What an appropriate time for one of our hens to fall ill.

The other morning when I opened the coop door for the ladies, Ruby, our Black Australorp, hopped to the ground and just kind of stayed there, crouched and unable to fully stand. Crap! No need to consult the experts on this one. I knew. But just to confirm, I picked her up and pressed a finger into the center pad of a foot. Nothing. Paralysis was setting in. This was definitely Marek's. But all our birds had been vaccinated, which is 95-98% effective! Pretty much sums up my luck with chickens.

I should have known that she might not have been right since she hadn't been on the roosting bar for a couple months and had stopped laying. However, it's winter so I figured that she had stopped laying due to dwindling daylight. The roosting thing I chalked up to her being low on the pecking order. But I guess in retrospect that didn't make much sense since she had been one big ass bird back in September.

As always , it was my little Googlebear to the rescue. But this time it had nothing to do with a cure and everything to do with a practical solution: compost pile or dinner table. Don't cringe, my dears. We've lost so many birds to this disease that it seemed like such a waste to bury another.

Well kiddos, it seems that it is perfectly fine to eat a bird with Marek's. In fact, you probably already have at some point as almost all birds have been exposed to it. An infected bird most often develops lesions or tumors on the nervous system in the legs and neck. Like cancer in animals, the disease doesn't transfer to humans.

I culled Ruby within a few hours of determining that she was ill. The poor thing had become very thin, her skin so loose that only the sharpest of knives would do the deed. There was barely any food in her crop, save for a few greens, and almost nothing in her intestines. I cradled her in my arms before I sent her to the big sleep. She was a good, sweet bird who laid a few giant eggs in her short strut upon this stage. I was sad to have her go.

I know a lot of you out there are thinking "Gross!". Yeah, that's what I thought last year. This time around I'm thinking stew pot and tamales. Waste not, want not.


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How Embarrassing!

Awhile back, I was interviewed by *fair companies, a website with a ton of awesome videos and resources on sustainable culture. To tell you the truth, I had forgotten all about it until I received an email from the videographer, Kirsten Dirkson. I think we spent less than an hour shooting, which amazes me that they could turn out such a lengthy video with so little footage. What I love most about it is that it has a much more natural feel to it, in contrast to our more highly produced video for the Whole Food's Grow program. But OMG, I am so embarrassed by the state of my disheveled backyard and messy, cluttered refrigerator. And check out those "There's Something about Mary" bangs! I thought I was being so clever with that kerchief, hiding away the bad hair day. Total fail.

I read through some of the comments on YouTube and a common perception amongst viewers is that we keep our goats in a little prison like cell, which makes me so sad. *sigh* I swear to you, our goats have a good life. Yes, sometimes they get cooped up in the pen for too long, but they get access to the rest of the yard and the neighbor's. I have seen pens in the country with just as small of a space as we use for our girls. Don't forget, aside from terrorizing the backyard weeds and rose bushes, they also go for strolls around the neighborhood and canters through beautiful McLaren park.

Blood Thirsty Hens and Killer Pumpkins

I'm so sorry for the lag in posts, dear readers. The past couple months have been rough. I never fully recovered from that virus and then got another one on top of that. Basically, I've been feeling like crap for the past eight weeks and haven't felt motivated to write as the farm has gone to pot while I've been struggling to just get by. It happens.

This has been a shit time to get taken out of commission too, since it is the start of the rainy season, or what I like to refer to as "vermin season". In search of a dry place to nest, our most tenacious nemesis this year has been not the rat, but the mouse. Those little fuckers have infested our basement and backyard, leaving droppings and shredding any scrap of paper or fabric in their path. But the great thing about mice is that they are stupid, unlike rats who tend to outwit every evil plan I have come up with for their demise.

So far, these jaw traps have been the shiznit. They practically have a no-fail rate compared to the standard snap traps. Unfortunately, the mice seem to be reproducing faster than I can trap them. It's time to bring out the big guns.

One of the best methods that I have used for killing vermin is this pumpkin trap thing that I came up with. I take a leftover from Halloween, cut open the top like a jack-o-lantern lid, fill the bottom with a mixture of animal feed and plaster of Paris, cut a small hole a little larger than a quarter in the side, and replace the top. The rodents come in through the hole, as they are attracted to squash seeds and eat the feed and plaster mixture. Then the next time they drink water, the plaster hardens in their stomachs and kills them. Not the nicest way to go, but a vast improvement over poison as it is of no danger to rodent predators. The brilliance of this method is that no other animal can unwittingly access the plaster-laden feed.

Inadvertently, I found that chickens can be a big help in pest control. The other day I was out de-lousing the goats (another issue during the rainy season) when I heard something that sounded like a dog playing with his favorite squeaky toy. I thought to myself "I've never heard a chicken make THAT noise before." Then I saw what Cleo, the Ameraucana, had in her beak. She was pummeling that poor thing to the ground, a wheezy squeak emanating from the tiny creature with each voracious peck. The mousey didn't stand a chance. Those chickens will literally eat anything. If I ever faint in the animal pen, I can guarantee that I'll be a goner. The girls peck at me every time I'm in there like I'm something real tasty. Don't they know that I'm the one who feeds them?

Cleo paraded that mouse around like it was the biggest, juiciest worm she had ever found. The other ladies were so jealous, chasing her around the yard in a futile attempt to snatch the critter. What a cluckin' kerfuffle! Remember kids, chickens aren't benign, docile creatures. They are killers. Possessive, blood-lusty killers. Approach with caution.




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Green Eggs. Please Pass the Ham.

Finally, a green egg! I am on my third Ameraucana, but this is my first ever green-shelled egg. Honestly, I never thought it would happen.

As many of you out there know, the Ameraucana is known for its green or blue eggshells. But did you know that Ameraucanas can lay all sorts of colors of eggs, including beige or pink? Yeah, I didn't either. Apparently, this is due to birds with the blue egg gene being crossed with standard breeds as the breed was being developed.

Ameraucanas are sometimes confused with Araucanas, which they are related to, or Easter Eggers, the breed by which the Ameraucana was developed in crossing them with Old World varieties. They are actually a distinct breed that must meet specific criteria laid out by the The American Poultry Association's American Standard of Perfection. Araucanas, originating in Chile where they were used by Quechua and Mapuche speaking tribes and coming to North America via the Falkland Islands where they had been traded by Argentinians, have large ear tufts and beards, virtually no comb, and no wattles whatsoever. The gene for the tufts is actually lethal in that if a pair who carry the tufted allele are bred together, one quarter of the offspring will die in the shell. Weird. The Ameraucana, on the other hand, does not carry the lethal gene. They do, however, have a muff (beard), which is much smaller then their Araucana cousins. Easter Eggers can have a variety of features and they carry the blue egg gene like their Ameraucana and Araucana relatives.

My first Ameraucana was a buff and never made it to laying, having died of Marek's at about 12 weeks. My second Ameraucana, Eggo, was white and she gave me pinkish eggs. I must admit, I was disappointed. At long last, my hen Cleopatra, whom I purchased at the feed store in late spring of this year, is laying little green eggs. I think we shall have to celebrate this blessed event with some ham. Isn't that what Dr. Seuss would do?



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An Open Letter to James McWilliams: On Hatching a Plan to Get the Real Inexpert Killers - Cats

Dear James,

Boy was I surprised to see that little ol' me made it into one of your articles in the Atlantic. I wouldn't have even known about it if it weren't for someone leaving a comment on my blog. She was nice enough to post a link so I clicked over to see your article on backyard animal slaughter and I thought "Hot diggity damn, we must have taken down the hideous beast that is the industrial meat processing complex!" I mean why else would we be talking about a handful of "inexpert" urban farming enthusiasts, like myself, killing a few chickens and rabbits when professional chicken slaughtering facilities botch well over 1 billion kills per year. During the process of shipping poultry in cramped cages there are around 54 million per year that either die from being heated or frozen to death during transportation; then the poor cluckers are hung by chains where 900 million have their wings broken; the final phase includes dunking them in an electrocution bath, sending them assembly line to a rotary blade that slices their necks, and dipping them into scalding water to ease feather plucking during which time 180 million birds are either improperly electrocuted and/or sliced and then are essentially scalded alive. I'm the kind of gal that keeps up with what's going on in our food system so news as big as overthrowing this horrendous operation surely couldn't have escaped my notice. And after a Google search, I see that it hasn't happened. Well that's disappointing, thought not exactly surprising given Big Ag's strangle hold on government policy.

So why were you writing about me? I mean I'm flattered and all, but I've got exactly 990 well appreciated fans. Not much of a pulpit, I'd say.

Well I read on, but I didn't see my name anywhere. Damn dude, if you're going to give a girl press, you could at least give me my props. I got to a passage where the words sounded familiar and suddenly I was jolted back to that horrific day when I had to kill sweet Pearl, my incurably sick laying hen. Yeah, that was a bad day. Having never killed an animal before, a beginner so to speak, or "inexpert" as you like to put it, which I might say is a synonym for beginner, but then I'm no linguist - I didn't do such a graceful job. Thanks for the memories, buddy.

And then I thought, what the hell does fucking up ending a life that was already enduring "immense suffering" have to do with backyard slaughtering for food? 'Cause like Pearl was diseased and shit and looked really fucked up. No one was going to eat her. She was never intended for the proverbial chopping block either. She was just supposed to lay real nice eggs and have feathers on her feet which I thought was a really neat thing  - to have feathers on your feet, that is. I mean I'd want to have feathers on my feet if I could grow them. Wouldn't you? It's not like I'm proud of the fact that I suffocated a chicken. I really thought this was evident and that the brutally detailed writing of the incident was like a warning to others to not do what I had so ineptly done. But since she had been slowly suffocating for days and days, gasping for air at 3-5 second intervals, I'm not sure that hastening her demise in the same vein was anymore of a tragic end.

Anyways, I made my way through the entire article and still I couldn't figure out what Pearl had to do with your argument. Actually, if you don't mind me asking, what was your point exactly? From what I could make out, you're saying that beginning farmers shouldn't be allowed to kill their animals because as beginners we would make a "bloody mess" so we should just leave it to the Big Ag pros to do the deed, no matter how ugly since it would be done at a "graceful distance". For reals? That's your argument? Like, did you get that off a crackhead on the street? I say this only because I can't think of anyone else who could look at the industrial slaughterhouse numbers and rationalize this. Even if we had every single man, woman, and child in the U.S. bungle one slaughter each this year, we would still have more than three times as many inhumane poultry deaths leaving it up to the pros. But unlike machines, humans have the capacity to learn from their mistakes. So wouldn't it be better if people took killing their meat into their own hands since over time there would be a lot less suffering involved?

I was even more boggled about your purpose with the incomplete Emerson quote about "graceful distance", which in full says "You have just dined, and however scrupulously the slaughterhouse is concealed in the graceful distance of miles, there is complicity." At this point, I had no idea what the fuck you were talking about anymore. Should we remain complicit? Or did you purposely leave off the rest of that quote so that the logical conclusion would be drawn: all meat eating is culpable in the kill? How does that serve the overall point of leaving the slaughtering up to the pros? Or are we also not supposed to go with the big guy 'cause we'd still be guilty? Are we subtly being told not to eat meat lest we commit that mortal sin against your personal ethics, veganisim, a position that you are never forthright about in your writings, but seem to consistently hint at? God, I love Wikipedia.

Aside from the fact that your argument has more holes in it than a block of Emmentaler (how are you able to keep a job at a major university espousing crap like this?), I was still stuck on the incident with Pearl and why it made it into the article. And I also wanted to know why the Atlantic used that bizarre picture of a four legged, wet hen being held inappropriately by the wings to talk about backyard animal slaughter (shit, you guys should have asked me; I've got a bunch of pics you could have purchased for like a bazillion dollars or something). So I contacted the Atlantic's research department to see if, indeed, your piece had actually been checked for accuracy:

 Attention Fact Check Department and Editors of the Atlantic:

In your recent article, "The Locavore's Mistake: Deregulating Animal Slaughter" by James McWilliams, I see there is a quote from my blog and I'm curious as to why a mercy killing made it into the piece as it has nothing to do with the author's overall argument about backyard farmers killing animals for food. This should have been more than evident to any staff member who bothered to read the entire blog post. I know it's a tedious chore, but I would assume that a longstanding, illustrious magazine such as yours would go that extra mile in an effort to preserve good journalism.

I am also confused by two other issues in the article. 1. Why is Emerson only quoted in part?  The entirety reads, "You have just dined, and however scrupulously the slaughterhouse is concealed in the graceful distance of miles, there is complicity." As far as I can tell, this would make no logical sense given the author's overall intent of arguing FOR a graceful distance. And 2. Why was a picture of a mutant, four-legged chicken used in association with backyard slaughter? How does this even remotely have anything to do with topic at hand? I expect this kind of journalistic sensationalism from trashy rags such as the National Enquirer, not a well reputed media outlet.

Thank you for addressing my questions. I look forward to your response.

Heidi Kooy, a.k.a. The Sadistic Chicken Suffocater

While we wait for the Atlantic to get back to me on that one, I think we, you and me James, should consider who the real menaces are when it comes to inhumane deaths: Cats. Those little bastards are some cold-hearted motherfuckers, willfully shredding birds without a care as to how they get the job done. And they are fucking wasteful. Look at what they did to my poor bird, Lilyana:

I know. Totally fucked up. There's still a lot of meat left on her. That slimy long thing below her body is actually her trachea. At first I thought the cat had decapitated her, but in fact, it had just mangled the head beyond recognition.

We could end this immeasurable cruelty, James. I'm telling you, these cats have to go. There are too many of them and they are killing hundreds of millions of songbirds and other avian species each year, according to our government. If we could round them all up, we could send them off to the industrial poultry slaughtering facilities. I know a few of those crazy cat ladies would be totally pissed off, and I'm sure my mom wouldn't take it all that well since she loves cats, but it wouldn't really be that big of a deal 'cause it would all be done at a "graceful distance". We could rename the slaughtering facilities "Causchwitz". Catchy, isn't it? Though I would like to change the method of killing for the kitties and go with something a little less bloody, like gas chambers. Once all these blasted cats are gone, then we won't have to worry about all the gruesome deaths of the poor, defenseless birds. Well, I guess there would still be raccoons and opossums... while we're at it, we could take out those guys too!

Holy shit, James! Did you see how easy that was? We went from taking an unpleasant incident to Here Kitty Kitty Goebbels in only a few sentences. You see, that's what happens when we extrapolate a Final Solution from a small number of anecdotes. One minute you're trying to end suffering and the next you're creating mini gas chambers for felines. Just goes to show you how quickly things can get out of hand.

So the next time you find yourself writing an article, think about the larger picture first. Am I trying to end cruel practices or am I promoting a Causchwitz? Our theories can have unintended consequences, results that could be more gruesome than what we had imagined.

And I promise you that I won't go ahead with my cat gas chamber idea, though I will probably threaten my own cat, Luna, with Causchwitz since she has a horrible propensity to shit in the bathtub when she gets pissed off and I think that is nothing but rude and deserving of terrorizing, idle threats.

But I AM going to go ahead and kill my rooster. He's been crowing at midnight and that's unacceptable behavior on this farm. Don't worry, his death will be swift. I've learned much since my first time. You are more than welcome to come and help out if you are at all concerned that I might fuck up again.

Warmest Regards,
Heidi Kooy

P.S. By the way, the next time you put me in one of your articles, I would really appreciate it if you actually used my name, because when people Google "sadistic chicken suffocater", you can bet your sweet ass that I want to come up top of the list on that one. There's a resume I can build with that title. I'm just sure of it.

Not Your Typical American Neighborhood

That's Sir Crows A Lot in the foreground. I've been meaning to "do him" as I've been afraid of annoying the neighbors. But then a funny thing happened on the way to the chopping block. I asked my Guatemalan neighbor, Isela, if my rooster had been bothering her. Without a second of hesitation she replied, "Of course not!" When I told her not to worry - that I was planning on taking him out soon, she cried "Nooooooooooooooh! I loooohve it. The sound is so peaceful." I don't believe I've ever heard of a rooster crow being described as such, but then what a relief to know that one of my most uptight neighbors was actually enjoying his cock-a-doodle-doos.

My plans hadn't changed though. Sir Crows A Lot, a.k.a. Fried, still had a date with the reaper. That was until I bumped into another neighbor, Vak, from the Philippines. He asked me if I still had my rooster and I assured him that that wouldn't be the case for much longer. When he queried what I meant by that, I made a slicing motion across the throat, which evidently translates in all cultures. With a far away, misty look in his eyes he replied, "Oh no! I love that sound. It reminds me of home."

In any other big city neighborhood, a rooster would be an irritation at best, if not an outrage. But not in my barrio, mixed with a third Asians from China, the Philippines, and  Vietnam; a third Latinos from Central and South America; and a final third from a potpourri of places, most likely foreign. Here my rooster stands for something that American urban areas lack: a pastoral, homey feeling that one usually only finds in more remote places. His croons soothe the frazzled nerves of congestion weary souls longing for a bit of the country in their fast-paced, traffic-jammed, mass transit cramped, hectic lives. He brings a bit of  tranquility and beauty in his sharp cries. Ironic, for sure, but no less invaluable or charming.

As far as rooster machismo goes, he's a pretty good guy. He doesn't mount the ladies with extreme force and no hen is missing back feathers, a serious issue with a lot of cocks. However, he could stand to be more vigilant as far as predators are concerned (there was an incident with a stray cat last week, which I will relate in a future post) and he doesn't serve much purpose for us since we aren't trying to breed our ladies. Still, I'm thinking I might keep him around until someone complains.



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Why Did the Chicken Cross the Road?

Finally, an answer to the age old question.

Eating Meat and Harvesting Hens

During my 10 year stint as a vegetarian, I believed that one shouldn't eat meat unless they could kill it themselves. Being a sensitive kind of gal, I thought that by avoiding flesh I had neatly solved the "eating sentient creatures" dilemma. That is until I found out what happens to unwanted male offspring of dairy animals and hens that don't lay eggs anymore. Without even meaning to and even as a non-meat eater, I was participating in the death of our feathered and furry friends.

So why didn't I become a vegan? Well that would mean giving up cheese. Maybe when hell freezes over that would happen as I come from a long line of Swiss dairy farmers and Dutch cheese eaters. We are cheese people, having subsisted off the stuff for centuries. My body is genetically conditioned to thrive on dairy products.

But aside from my heritage, veganism never appealed to me. It seemed too extreme and more than a little unnatural (sorry vegan friends). Humans and our Australopithecus ancestors have been omnivores for at least a couple million years. Our place in the food chain, though it has evolved from prey to predator over millions of years, has secured who we are today in the order of things. Scientists all agree that Homo Sapiens evolved into the cranium gigantors that we are today because of meat eating.

As we have moved away from slaughtering our own food in the last century, we as a culture have removed ourselves from facing the inescapable fate of all living creatures. Everything dies. It's not evil or bad. It just is. Death, by its very nature, is final and can be very violent. We need to own this instead of chasing our tails trying to avoid the inevitable. In the bigger picture, we should all just be glad that we don't live in the world of microorganisms because that is some fucked up, war zone type shit that is going on there.

Don't get me wrong, I have nothing against veganism. In a society of endless choices, veganism is one of our many options as to how we can eat in this world. Yay for diversity, I say. My problem is with vegangelicals (I just heard this word today and had to use it); those who are intolerant of any other diet other than a vegan one. I'm sorry, but that's just nuts. Who made you, vegangelical, the decider? Why do you have to be like a power-inebriated George W. waving your "I know what's best for the world" guns in the air?

Seriously, what's wrong with conscious meat eating? I'm against factory farming as much as the next vegan. I'm just not against meat per se. Vegans like to claim that meat eating is environmentally unsound and I won't argue with part of that premiss. Americans eat waaaaaay too much factory farmed, plastic wrapped, monoculture-subsidized everything. But my pastured, locally raised beef  where the entire animal is consumed is probably of less environmental consequence than your Creamy Sheese imported from Scotland. Just sayin'.

But I don't really want to enter into an argument about whose lifestyle is "better". I'd rather be an advocate for thoughtful meat consumption because I'm going to continue to choose to eat meat regardless of vegangelical proselytizing. My hope is that by raising our own animal products here at Itty Bitty that we can encourage other meat eaters to think more about where their meat comes from, how it was raised, what it was fed, how it was killed, etc. and come to make better choices based on this knowledge.

On that note, I'd like to share my experience from this past weekend of facing the realities of meat eating (WARNING: graphic photos to follow). The awesome folks over at Dog Island invited me to learn the ins and outs of chicken harvesting. Considering the botched job I did with my first kill, I felt the need to get a grip on how to do this with as little suffering as possible.

Folks have a lot of different ways to take out a chicken. Some take the hens by the head and whip them around like a lasso, breaking the neck. Others just twist and pull. Some sever the head, while others hang the bird upside down in a killing cone and cut the jugular. The French snip the vein under the tongue, which I hear makes the bird pass out immediately. We used two methods: the chopping block and the cone. I think I preferred the chopping block as it seemed more instantaneous. The cutting of the jugular left the animal a little too alert for a little too long for my taste. We used a noose around the neck with one person holding the string and the other person doing the deed. Here's a vague picture of the setup.




After the hen was dispatched, we dunked her into a pot of boiling water for 45 seconds. This helps with the removal of the feathers by loosening them. If you leave the bird in too long though, the skin will tear.




Next came the plucking. The bird was hung upside down over a trash bin to make the job clean and easy.




Even with the scalding, it's still hard to get all the feathers. Also chickens have hairs under their feathers. We took care of those with a blow torch.




Next we severed the feet from the rest of the leg at the joint.




Then it was time to deal with the insides. The tricky part is slicing the skin near the cloaca without cutting into the intestines. I highly recommend having a pro illustrate the proper way to do this as it is something difficult to convey in words and pictures.




After a large enough incision is made, you have to stick your hand up into the body cavity and pull everything out in one go. This can be difficult if you have a big hand. If you are one of the more well endowed in this area, you might want to consider finding a small handed friend. I have slender, but long hands for a lady and even I bruised my knuckles against the rib cage. That big thing in the upper right corner is the gizzard.




With the innards out, you still need to scrape out the lungs and get the heart. The lungs are a trippy fluorescent pink and difficult to pull out.

Once you get the back end cleared, you need to address the crop and trachea, which can only be taken out through the top of the bird. The crop is squishy and easy to puncture. Peeling it out rather than pulling gets the job done with less trouble. The trachea looks like a snorkel tube.




After the evisceration, we put the bodies in ice water where they would rest for a day before being stored in the freezer. This lets the body go through rigor mortis until it eventually relaxes within 24-48 hours.

This process certainly wasn't easy, but it has given me greater appreciation for the food I eat and has furthered me along my path of more conscientious meat consumption.

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June Happenings

June has been a weird month as far as weather. We've had several days of rain and howling gales that are more common for early spring. The rain hasn't been too unwelcome as it has kept the greens producing without watering, but we are already seeing signs of powdery mildew on the peas and the apple trees have white fuzzy fungus growing on them. It's not a lot of damage. The wind, however, is driving me nuts. I've always had a strong aversion to wind. It makes me irritable. Highly irritable. And it's pulled my bean plants out by the roots, bent the chard plants that I am trying to save seed from, and nearly ripped off the corrugated roofing on the animal pen that had been glued on with Sikaflex. Damn, that's an angry wind. No wonder I feel like I'm being rubbed the wrong way.

Aside from annoying weather, the apple tree is bursting with fruit. The bees have certainly done their work and it looks as though we will be heavily laden with apple pies, applesauce, apple whatever, and hopefully cider and cider vinegar. The husband is planning to make an apple press, but I'm not sure if he will be able to get to it in time. We should be wading through barrels upon barrels in less than two weeks.




Ethel says I need to repair this fence as the chicks keep escaping through this hole.




Speaking of the chicks, they have graduated to the big girl coop though are not so happy to spend their days with the full grown ladies. Sweet Pea is showing her not-so-sweet side by giving each chick a bit of what for. So they have taken to wandering under the apple tree for some daytime peace and weed munching. Today five of the six made it back to the pen while one of the Dark Cornishes cowered behind a piece of plywood. I think her legs are too big for her to get airborne. Two of the chicks even made it into the coop. That's a first and a good sign that I will spend less time in the evenings chasing recalcitrant chooks around the yard trying to get them to bed.




I'm really proud of the hoop house I set up in my neighbor's yard. Using only rebar, 1/2 inch PVC pipe, 6 mil plastic sheeting, and rubber-tipped clamps, I built the thing for less than $100. The neighbors only use the space to dump trash so I struck a deal with them that if I could use it to grow vegetables, I would keep the area neat and tidy. Thus far it's been an ideal arrangement and I plan to give them a good portion of the harvest.




The plants are absolutely ecstatic to be out of the wind and in some heat. The temperature is usually at least 10 to 15 degrees warmer than anywhere else on our lots. I've even rigged up the drip irrigation in there.




Look at these tomatoes! I was concerned that I might have to buy transplants again this year as I had left the seedlings out in the wind a few too many times. But once I popped them in the poly tunnel, all changed their tune.




I'll keep you updated as to how it works out. I've got more than a dozen varieties of tomatoes, several types of squash, a few cucumbers, beans, and melons growing in there. To think, I might produce a melon in San Francisco! If I'm successful, I will have defied the bounds of growing in a cold, foggy summer micro-climate. Good luck to me, eh?

Baby Bird Update - I'm pretty sure he found his mother. He flew out the window and has not been heard from since. I wish him the best.
 


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Chickens at Sunset

Holy cluckin' crap am I exhausted. This weekend kick ass urban farmer Esperanza Pallana of Pluck and Feather and I gave a presentation and fielded hundreds of questions on raising backyard chickens.



We asked for it and boy did those questions come. We were a very popular booth,



which may have had to do with the fact that I brought all of my chicks and hens for show and tell. The kids loved it.



And so did the adults. Most were smitten with the vintage camper inspired demonstration coop in our booth designed by John Wright. There were a lot of folks interested in the idea of chickens, but I was thoroughly shocked to meet so many Sunset readers who currently raise their own hens, some of whom have been doing it for years and years.My favorites may have been the friends of Dorothy trio living in Sacramento where one had been raising chickens on the sly for nearly 20 years. Apparently, it has been illegal in Sacramento since the 70s, but they are hoping to change the laws this upcoming month. I wish them the best of luck.

Another highlight from the event was this totally rad chicken coop called the Kippen House (Kippen means "chicken" in Dutch) that had a garden bed for a roof. It was absolutely gorgeous!



I didn't have much time to explore the rest of the festival with all the people wanting to chat chickens. I am so grateful that our friends over at FARMcurious and Dog Island happened to be there too, as they were indispensable in helping out with all the cluckin' questions. By the end of it all we were completely chickened out. I think Esperanza's face says it all.


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Pop Tart (Coq) au Vin

The time had come to honor the circle of life here at Itty Bitty. Pop Tart had been marinating in the freezer for six months and Monica, the Irish lass who found the poor divil lying dead at the foot of the coop, is off to her motherland for the summer. Clearly, a bon voyage party, with Pop Tart at the helm, was called for. But what to do with a stewing hen?

Ask around and you'll get a lot of naysayers to the eating of an aged egg layer. They'll tell you that the meat isn't fit for consumption; that it will be tough and stringy and disgusting. Well I'm here to tell you that they are wrong, wrong, wrongity wrong.

The folks that think a stewing hen is inedible are the ones who are attempting to prepare it like a broiler. That doesn't work. Broiler chickens, the kind that you buy at the store tidily wrapped in clinging plastic and styrofoam, are harvested at around eight weeks. Eight weeks, people! The incredible rate of growth is mind-boggling, unless you see it firsthand. Think about it. That creature hatches at only a few ounces and then puts on nearly a pound of weight a week. Those muscles that end up on your dinner plate probably haven't even been properly stretched. Talk about fresh, young meat. But of course a hen or rooster that has been running around the yard for a couple years will be a tad more rough and tumble in taste and texture, the tenderness and succulence of adolescence long gone. The secret to preparing one of these old cluckers is the same as with any tough cut of meat: cook the shit out of it for a really really long time under low heat.


I knew that I would have to find a tried and true recipe to prepare Pop Tart's thin frame so I turned to Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall, British author of the award winning The River Cottage Meat Book, my crockpot, and the French. Coq au vin, as the name suggests, obviously descends from the French. Long considered a peasant dish, an old rooster who was losing his abilities between the legs would be cast into the stewing pot along with some wine, onions, mushrooms, salt pork and a bouquet garni. The lengthy cooking period broke down the tough connective tissues that tend to build up in older, active birds, creating a tasty and inexpensive meal. My modern version utilizes my crockpot for the slow, low temp cooking. Today, coq au vin is most often prepared with broilers and cooked for shorter periods of time. What a waste, I say. Let's create a stewing hen revival. I know Hugh is on board. He has several videos (look for more info in my next post) on his experience as a small holder, of which the American translation would probably be "hobby farmer", where he advocates for using all of one's resources in a sensible, holistic manner. He would never let an old rooster or hen go to naught.

Hugh's recipes have never steered me wrong so I went with a variation on his coq au vin.

Ingredients:

• old laying hen
• onions
• a couple bulbs of green garlic
• 1/2 pound button mushrooms
• 1/2 pound bacon
• half a glass of brandy
• 2 cups red wine (I used Bogle's Merlot)
• 2 cups water
• a bouquet garni of celery, parsley, thyme, and bay leaf
• pepper to taste

First I quartered the hen. Her meat looked fantastic, though there wasn't a lot of it. And did you know that chickens have hair? Like really long hair, almost four inches! I guess it's tucked in between the feathers. How that stuff gets plucked out is a mystery to me. Pop Tart still had most of hers. I figured they would cook off, which happened to be the case. Next I chopped up the bacon into small pieces and fried it. While the bacon drained, I sauteed the onions and green garlic in the bacon grease. Then I placed both the bacon and onions in the crockpot. I dredged the quartered chicken in flour and browned it in the same pan that I had cooked the bacon and onions in. After the skin got a nice crisp coating, I poured the brandy over the chicken while tipping the pan so that it would light on fire. When the flames died down, I transferred the pieces to the crockpot and added the wine to the pan to deglaze all the goodness. As soon as the wine bubbled, I poured it into the crockpot and added a little pepper. I set the crockpot to low for six hours. After about four, I added the bouquet garni. Then one hour before the chicken was done, I sauteed the mushrooms (sliced) in a little butter and moved them into the crock as soon as they developed a good sweat.

Little Pop Tart strutted across the stage of existence one last time in a serving vessel fit for a queen (one of my finest thrift store finds).

We served her with a lovely spread of homegrown artichoke hearts, homegrown pickled carrots, pickled beets, and grilled asparagus. Her flesh, atop heaps and heaps of mash, transformed into a toothsome meal good enough for any king.

And we, the court, made merry one last time before our summer apart.

What will I do without my farm sitter?

Guest Blog: Farm Camp Review

Written by Guest Blogger Ursula Stauder (the most awesomest 14 year old in the world)

Farm Camp was the highlight of my summer. I learned so many things about Urban Homesteading! :D:D

At first, I was quite skeptical about the chickens and goats. I have always been a little afraid of chickens and the goats were trying to eat my clothes, but soon I started looking forward to waking up and feeding the animals. I found them quite amusing. Lucy, the pregnant goat, and Ethel, the non pregnant goat, were hilarious when they ate apples. The chickens were also very funny, and I learned that when you hear obnoxiously loud squawking that can sometimes sound like a barking dog, that a chicken is laying an egg! 

My favorite part of Farm Camp was cooking. I love to cook! Heidi and I cooked apple pie and bread. The apple pie was very fun to make and was delicious. I love apples, and to cook them into such a fantastic pie made it 10 times better. Along with apples, I also really like bread. I learned how long bread takes to prepare, and how cold the dough can be (editors note - This was a no knead bread method where the dough requires some refrigeration.). Ute also introduced me to uncooked bread dough. It is so good!

Heidi showed me how to double dig with compost for raised beds. It was hard work, and very smelly, but afterwords it was rewarding to see a fresh raised bed. After I replaced the soil, I had to soak it with water, which took a very long time. When it was soaked, we planted beans, beets, and other plants.

She also showed me how to make a planter with a plastic bucket and a drill. We also filled this with compost and a self watering bottle, which was an old two liter soda bottle. It looked great when we had finished.

Aside from the work, Heidi, Esteban, and Ute all helped me be more aware of my diet and surroundings by giving me small reading assignments and lectures that were very interesting and quite informative.

All in all, Farm Camp was amazing. I am so lucky to have had this experience. You guys have really opened my eyes to a lot of things, and I am very happy to be more aware about my food and lifestyle. Thank you so much Heidi, Esteban, and Ute. I love you guys!

Love, Ursy

Home

We've returned from "the happiest place on earth", which really should be called the most over-stimulating place on the planet, ready for the peace and routine of life on the urban homestead. If nothing else, we could all use a good cleanse in the culinary department after the all-you-can-eat junk food binge we've been on. I know I don't seem the type to make a pilgrimage to the Babylon ruled by a talking mouse, but my philosophy on life is much like the Zoroastrians: all things in moderation. Including hedonism.

I, myself, have extremely fond memories of Disneyland from when I was a child: the dizzying rides, the mountains of treats, the garish mechanical puppets. Though the sweltering heat and hoards of mouse eared devotees stewed in a landscape of over the top commercialism can feel much like a descent into hell, we had a thoroughly enjoyable time. To be sure there was unpleasantness to be tolerated. But I tell you, there is little that can top the expression on my child's face when after flinging pennies into every damned body of water on Disney property, wishing each time that she could fly, and then seeing her step off Space Mountain beaming "That was awesome! It was like we were flying through space!"

For all of you who only remember the Space Mountain of the 70s, let me assure you that it is nothing like that old rickety you-can-see-the-tracks-with-a-bunch-of-specks-that-kinda-look-like-stars roller coaster. The ride thrusts you into pitch black with a dappling of light flecks too dim to illuminate anything, as blaring video game-esque music pumps out of each car that twists and turns you through this simulated outer space at neck-breaking speed. We all gave it two thumbs up.

While we were away, my dear friend Julia kept the farm in tip top shape. We returned to find all living things happy, healthy, clucking, bleating, hopping, and growing. Here is an update on the various farm entities:

Goats

Lucy has become intensely "frisky" as her pregnancy progresses. I fully understand what those hormones can do to a lady, but poor Ethel has been taking a real beating, especially when it comes to food. At chow time, Lucy will do anything she possibly can to keep Ethel away from the grain, including headbutting with such force that it knocks Ethel clean off the deck. Lucy's high spirits aren't just reserved for her pal. She has given the chickens plenty of what for, but fortunately they are quick to scurry off. I, however, have not been as lucky. While attempting to get Lucy on her back for some hoof trimming, she gave me a blow to the noggin' using the side of her rock hard skull. I swear I felt my little mass of gray cells slam against the opposite side of my head. You won't be surprised to hear that I had a headache for the rest of the day. And to all you readers who may recall my pregnant hormonal episodes, just remember I never headbutted anyone... even if I did feel like it.

Chickens

Other than the a few scuffles with Lucy, the chickens are doing swell. I did hear that Eggo gave the farm sitter a hard time, refusing to go back into her coop at dusk. All the other hens were being good girls and going to bed on time, but Eggo just wanted to hang out with the goats to try and score some leftover feed.The goat food is like crack to the chickens.

Bunny Love

Julio is happy here on the farm, probably because I let him run around the yard eating all the dandelion greens he can stomach. His eye isn't getting any better so I think I'll have the vets do a tear duct flush when we have him neutered in a couple months. I can't wait to move him into the Green Bunny Playhouse, which will hopefully be done in the next couple weeks. Did I already tell you all about this project? I'll give a full debriefing when it's finished.

The Garden

I think the plants grew nearly five inches while we were on vacation, which is good because that's what is keeping them ahead of the rats. Those pesky little varmints are about to send my blood pressure into the stratosphere. They've figured out how to hop over the electric fence and have started in on the peas again. I've made some adjustments and that seems to be keeping them at bay for the moment. I'm not going to sit on my laurels too long as I've heard from my hubby that those assholes can chew through concrete. Some old fashioned snap trap reinforcements are going in at the weakest points of our electric barricade and around the chicken coop (sometimes when I'm out closing the coop door, I spot a couple pairs of beady eyes tucked under the lip of the nesting boxes).

Most of the veggies I've attempted to grow have done well, if they haven't succumbed to the rat invasion. However, there are a few exceptions like the chard which is getting wilty and brown and then being eaten by ants, the watermelon radishes which I've found some kind of creepy crawly on the bulb that looks like maggots (since these are growing fairly close to the chicken house, they may well be maggots), and the spinach which has a touch of powdery mildew (at least I think that's what it is). But damn, can I grow me some kale. I've got that stuff coming out of my ass. Even the bunny is getting sick of it.

The worst gardening blunder has been with my tomato and pepper starts this year. The seeds all sprouted nicely and then suddenly their growth was stunted like a malnourished child's, except the StupiceAnnie's Annuals and Perennials (an awesome nursery and definitely worth the trip, though I recommend going with a friend). I felt a bit ashamed at my botched job of seed starting, but as my friend Kd says "The only shame is not having any tomatoes at the end of the season." I kept those words close to my heart as I handed over a good chunk of change for some quality heirloom varieties. This year I'm growing Stupice, Thessaloniki, AAA Sweet Solano, Snow White, Black Cherry, Spike, Spain, Principe Borghese, Michael Pollan, Jimmy Nardello’s Sweet Italian Frying pepper, Gypsy Pepper, Rocoto, and Mulato Isleno. They're all on my front patio in a variety of types of self-watering containers. Keep your eyes peeled for a future post on the construction of these bad boys.

(P.S. I promise to keep up with posts this summer as there is a lot happening around here that I want to share with you all.)

Nebraska, the Good Life

This past week, Ute and I were visiting my parents. As many of you are well aware (let's face it, 99% of you, my precious few readers, are friends or family), I hail from a smallish town in Nebraska, population approximately 25,000. I didn't grow up on a farm or anything. Rather I would be considered "city folk" by the majority of Nebraskans since there is a Kmart AND a Walmart in my hometown. But I did grow up on the edge of town across the street from an alfalfa field, began working in the corn fields detasseling seed corn at the tender age of 12, was a member of 4-H, and raised rabbits. The latter was actually illegal. I often marvel at the fact that I would never be able to raise my current critters within the city limits of my hometown. Even though our house was situated on a rural route for mail delivery, we were technically within city limits and therefore could not keep small livestock animals within a 50 yard distance of any dwelling. And for those of you out there who are spatially challenged, 50 yards is like a long distance, even in land o' plenty small towns.

Whenever I return to my roots, I expect to eat the typical Midwestern diet and engage in the standard activities, respectively eating fast food, fast food, and more fast food, and sitting in an overly air conditioned home watching television. Well, when in Rome. However, this last visit held so many unexpected culinary and pastime delights. Here are some of the highlights:

swimming at the super awesome water park with Grammy Betty,


admiring the neighbor's flower garden on evening strolls around the block,



eating local cuisine (I was so shocked to see that this trend has reached the Midwest.) at places like The Back Alley Bakery,


which carried a wide array of locally grown, organic grains


and fancy cheeses,


and, hands down, the best kolaches I have ever eaten,


feeding ducks and ducklings at the park,


watching crazy thunderstorms with dark ominous clouds on one half of the sky and a bright shining sun on the other,


gallivanting around the county fair


where I took Ute and her cousin, Zane, on throw-up rides,


watched the 4-H pygmy goat show,


with some pretty uncooperative goats,


and saw this cute little boy win Grand Champion for his cockerel at the poultry show,


visiting my friend Dan's cabin on the North Platte River where he took us pontooning,



and frog catching,


and wading in the lovely river,


and best of all, spending quality time with the Kooy family.


What a wonderful trip! But I'm glad to be back on the farm. I know my DDF is relieved. Taking care of all the plants and animals, working at his regular construction job, and simultaneously helping build the retaining wall in the backyard has really taken its toll. And there's so much for me to do here at home. All the animals' quarters need cleaning, the chickens need feed, Miss Lorraine needs to start her 3 day injection of antibiotics for her eye infection that is not clearing up, there is a tree full of apples that needs to be picked, and a couple tons of apples that need to be processed or stored. Come to think of it, I better get off this computer and get to work.