Returned from a dinner out accompanied by a light drizzle. Said pianissimo crescendoed into fortissimo shortly and I realized with cymbal clash clarity that the little lambs were without shelter. For a split second I reasoned that bands of sheep have lived without four by four supported roofs for a long time, but empathy made me don raingear and mismatched boots on the way to our herd.
Indeed they were huddled in a corner and bleating a bit. Off to the barn I went to procure a tarp and a stake, foremost of which I secured to the clothesline – located conveniently within the lamb area at the moment. With stake as third corner, voila, a pitched roof of sorts and some shelter for this evening. Tomorrow I’ll ready a stall for larger thunderstorms.
Let’s set the record straight: I am not familiar with sheep. As I asked the seller what to feed them, tears almost welled up in her eyes as she imagined their fate in the hands of such a novice. But here they are, the newest addition to my growing passion for living on a small farm.
Let’s dissect that last phrase. Dinner out tonight took me through our north pasture and across the neighbors’ dog yard to their front door. That to me is living anywhere – the ability to walk next door and enjoy the companionship of friends over a meal. But my three-minute stroll stimulated a lifetime of ideas: pull weeds there, cut down that dead tree, plant berries here and let the sheep graze there, and oh yes what about a cow?
This living on a small farm has me intrigued. Certainly overwhelmed, but I thrive on multiple projects. It’s the motherload of multi-tasking, ideal for anyone who experiences difficulty facing another day of routine.
Neighbors Steve and Erlene describe this ruminating as self reliance. Why can people not stand to be alone, we asked each other over salad and asparagus from their garden. How is it possible that people can’t step away from their computers, phones, televisions or even social gatherings, and feel comfortable? Into day four of being alone (boyfriend away on trip), I was grateful for the dinner invite, and just as eager to begin the next day’s passionate projects.
Despite all of the phone texting and personable chatter, these communication charades, I deduct we are all quite alone. We’ve picked up the pace of interactions with our scientific and societal advances to the extent that we’ve forgotten what it’s like to need others.
Steve shared the story of his father; a dairyman pre-1960s, he could only afford some equipment. What he didn’t own, the neighbor would bring by, lending both the machine and a hand to get work done. Steve’s father would do the same in return. Then prices for crops went up. Farmers purchased more equipment and land. The men were quickly dispersed, lone minds roving their rows. Moments of gathering guillotined.
I can’t knock the luxuries our time affords; who would fault African countries for putting cell phones to use in order to disseminate information on HIV/Aids? I do fault, however, those who would remove real experiences and real interactions from, particularly, their children’s lives. Wii tennis doesn’t cut it. Hit a real ball. In the fresh air. In a public park created to help communities find each other.
Erlene’s homemade ice cream saw us through her tales of teaching nature classes nearby. All types of kids tromp through the ponds and streams with her, rural, urban, talkers, quiet ones. They’re just young enough to react with wonder. This, Erlene says, is where her passions take flight. In the world of wonder, which is, in fact, our world. It’s also a world of storytelling and holding your friends hand as you cross the creek. Of screeching over the touch of a snake tongue rather than texting.
With that, Erelene pulled out ‘Stradivarius’, Steve his ax and me my cello for a nightcap. Sometime later I wandered home to soggy sheep and a new cat. I’m definitely not alone.
night in the life
Lynea had a little lamb
Drove another batch of ‘children’ home yesterday; maybe, just maybe, after several more years with the dogs, chickens, and now lambs and a stray cat, I’ll be ready for human parenthood. Martha Pisano of Highland Dairy fed me a good breakfast and strong cup of joe before we headed out to her pasture to cull four little ones. After a quick clipping of their feet, and a longer discussion on feed, vitamins and such, my boys where whisked into the back of our Prius (tarp laid out most invitingly) and sea legs began to take hold on the drive back home. Who can beat driving livestock home to the tune of 50mpg?
A securely fenced dog yard area, with plenty of tasty lawn grass, currently houses the lambs. They are quite excited to get into a paddock full of clover and more beneficially delicious grasses. Thankfully our lamb fencing arrived from Premier One yesterday as well. But a ground rod I need to pound in to complete the electrical needs for this fence is 
currently pounded in elsewhere . . . and refusing to emerge despite my best wriggling and pulling. Hmm . . . This fence’s shock pulses will be energized by a solar charger from Premier One as well. It’s out charging on the driveway while I wrestle with the ground rod. It’ll slide easily onto a metal stake as soon as I’m ready.
The goal is to move the lambs around the paddocks. As there are only four of them, great expectations of ‘mowing’ are unrealistic. Frankly delusional. Verdant, verdant, verdant. Let me multiply that by a million. So a-mowing we will go. After three months out from under horse hooves, the paddocks are growing nicely. Soil is still quite compacted, and will remain so, but plant life is not to be deterred. For the desired fence results (i.e. strong enough current to keep the lambs inside), I’ll need a relatively clear path for the fence to sit in. Plus, to encourage fill-in of good grasses in these fields, we’ll mow to a height of four or five inches, thus creating a micro-climate just above the soil, nice and shaded and moisture retaining, yet still penetrable by light, for seeds to get going.
I’m training the lambs to follow me by carrying some sweet feed when I go give them water and check on them in general. So called sweet because of the layer of molasses covering the contents. Now on to the rapidly growing ‘to-do’ list: more lettuce planting, veggie bed weeding (see pictures of how our plants are doing in this post), more chicken purchasing (momma fox got half of them again last week when the electricity cut out – outside breaker boxes tripped and cut out the current!!!), and of course, plenty of good cooking.
Cleveland containers
“I only have two speeds,” my sister told me this past weekend. “Hell-bent and catatonic.”
As the former indicates her pace for medical school duties, well then, I’ll take catatonic, please, and a Cleveland weekend full of container planting and calm hours. I had the luck to visit my sister Anne during one of the few pauses students take. Finished with her boards and about to head into neurosurgery rotations the day after I left, my moments with her were indeed the eye of the storm . . . 
or chard, as it were.
Cleveland Heights is home to many a stately landscape; however, Anne does not hold title to her residence, and furthermore, does not have the time to brush up on horticulture after cramming her head with minute detail on the human body. But she still loves good food and thus a plan was sprouted for outfitting her deck with a couple flavorful items. Bird feeder filled and post vaseline-d (for squirrel deterance), we headed to the Saturday morning farmers market in Shaker Square.
After a once-through, we settled on a vendor whose prices were right; into our arms plopped several chard starts, a rosemary, couple basil plants and a thyme. We also picked up some cilantro-lime freshly made pasta (for carbo-loading before the 
Cleveland Half-Marathon) and rhubarb – tis the season for this striking veggie. One vendor even had potatoes they’d kept through the winter. Cheers for those who think ahead.
Bag-o-soil was to be had at a nursery along the way home, and pots made available by the timely passing of houseplants sat waiting in their pleasant orange terracotta glow upon our return. Up went my sleeves, and out came the, uh, skeletons of plants past. Anne produced a large plastic fork for me to root around the elderly soil, and then we mixed in the new. She’ll ‘feed’ her plants throughout the 
summer with a light top layering of compost made from her kitchen scraps (a process she claims is sped up with the use of Bokashi).
With minimal memory space required, she’ll remember to water her herbs and greens. Hopefully snip off some leaves for seasoning and greens cooking . . . just right for the city dwelling med student.
Shad-alicious
One-hundred-and-eighteen years have not changed the Delaware River’s knack for flooding now and again. Thus, the Lewis Fishery located just up the bank from Lambertville, NJ’s main drag, continues to re-construct a wooden bridge access to the family owned island and outpost of shad history. Steve Meserve, the latest in a line of Lewis family men (and a couple women!) doesn’t let the extra carpentry work get to him though; with over a century of shad fishing in his bones, there’s just one thing to be done every spring: fish.
The difference in a century’s experience of the Lewis Fishery can be summed up in a simple statistic: year 1891, 10,000 caught, year 2006, 500 caught. So sure, none of us can cross the river on the backs of this type of herring like in our ancestor’s tales. But considering shad just about disappeared during the first half of the 
twentieth century, Meserve and his steady crew feel a certain awe alongside repsonsibility to these yearly visitors.
Michael and I hooked up with Meserve and crew for a couple of netting sessions this past weekend. Disliked in the restaurant and fast home cuisine world for its dual bone system, shad has few proponents going to work for it in fish markets. Easier options from around the world are available to many at any time. But we happen to enjoy shad’s flavor, and aren’t hampered by a couple of bones to nibble around. Plus, what better way to know where your food comes from than pull it from the water yourself?
The crew begins by repairing the 200-yard net used to corral the shad. Holes are tied up and sticks removed. Like a mellow afternooon cast, accompanied by the comradery of old friends and the relaxation of a ritualistic harvest, the net is piled into the boat. When it’s as good as it’s gonna get for the day’s haul, Meserve’s wife Sue climbs in. The terrier at her heels shoreside dissengages himself to take lead lookout position on the bow. Might be husband, brother-in-law, friend from the ’80s, who knows, who grab an attached rope to pull the lady and her vessel upstream about 400 yards.
At this point, Sue leaps to shore and backtracks to the original point of departure. Men who have no need for gym weightrooms clambor in to take hold of the two-by-four paddles and set straight out, attempting to keep the boat somewhat perpendicular to the current. A landsman remains behind, with the job of following behind the boat’s progress downstream, keeping his end of the net close to shore. Boat folks arc out, net dropping along the way, and then swing back into 
shore, curving the net so as to capture those who found themselves in the noosed waters.
Once the boat end and the landsman finish closing the circle, loud splashing ensues. Someone takes notes as others call out the catch: Striper! Shad! Catfish! The Lewis Fishery folks may only keep shad, as this is their only licensed take. Curious passersby have gathered to watch the noisy affair, and someone might even purchase a fish. At which point Sue takes the catch basket up to the fishing hut and does several things. First she’ll take a weight, and sex the fish. Then a scrape of scales, which indicate how many times the fish has been up the Delaware, and what the nutrition and general health conditions of it were for each of those years. Then, the knife.
New Jersey Fish and Game depends on the Lewis Fishery for these samples, and as a result, the information gathered regarding the fish’s health. There’s a reason the shad came back post 1970: the Clean Water Act. It is truly amazing what nature will do when given half a chance; with pollution regulated and reduced along the Delaware, these fish found there way back en route to spawning. It’s a good thing too, as they are just far enough along in their life cycle when they hit the Delaware to have lost a bit of their oily taste, but not yet starved themselves in the quest to reproduce.
The Delaware’s ecology offers Meserve greater perspective on his “commercial” fishing operation. Whereas days of old may have brought some amount of profit to the family, modern times have shown him the precarious balance of elements that simply allow shad to return to the river. Helpful friends and family and continued ownership of the fishery license are just the beginning of seeing the fish through another season. Other fish will continue to alter the below-surface life situation, as will whatever we humans add to the mix in the form of pollution, species addition and much more.
Meserve hopes to bring continued awareness to the Delaware through shad. He’s not asking for everybody to fry it up for dinner tonight, but rather to hear this particular fish’s story of what it takes to live. Our planet’s waters are plentiful, yet our interaction with them remains precarious.
For more on Shad, please visit WooFish.
fluffy flapjacks
Using different flours for pancakes, bread, scones, etc. opens up whole new worlds of texture and taste. I’ve been experimenting with atta flour recently; this is typically used in Indian cuisine, and makes one heck of a chapati. Atta flour also suits flapjack recipes perfectly. For those mornings when I’d rather tease cholesterol levels in a different manner than with our typical eggs, I go for these beauties. Have a closer look at the story behind the recipe at Saveur.
You’ll need: 2 cups flour (I used Atta flour, see above); 2 tbsp. granulated sugar; 4 tsp. baking powder; 1 tsp. baking soda; 1 tsp. fine salt; 2 cups buttermilk (goat’s milk also adds a nice, different flavor); 4 tbsp. melted butter; 1 tsp. vanilla extract; 2 beaten eggs
1. Put flour, sugar, baking powder, baking soda, and salt into a large bowl and whisk to combine; set aside.
2. Whisk together buttermilk, butter, vanilla, and eggs in a medium bowl. Pour the buttermilk mixture into the flour mixture and whisk together until just combined to make a thick batter. (For tenderer flapjacks, don’t overmix the batter.)
3. Heat an 8″ nonstick skillet over medium heat. Add 1 tbsp. butter and heat until the butter’s foam subsides. Ladle in about 1⁄2 cup of the batter. Cook the flapjack, turning once, until deep golden brown on both sides, about 5 minutes total. Transfer to a large plate; keep warm. Repeat process with additional butter and remaining batter to make 8 flapjacks in all. Serve hot, topped with butter and maple syrup and a dusting of confectioners’ sugar.
spring sprouts . . . rain drown?
Time will tell . . . here are some photos of good eats moving into edible territory. HOWEVER! Three days of rain are convincing me that I planted a wee bit early. Wonder how those tomato starts are holding up . . . have had amazing salads of zesty arugula and micro-spicy greens for the last week. Something good was had before the deluge!
a real rabbit
My chicken go-to-guy told me a tale of his rabbit loves the other week, and as a result my fondness for the Velveteen Rabbit story hopped into the culinary stratosphere. Reliant on game meat, Mr. Murray puts aside time each year to hunt for his family. Whitetail deer, rabbits and other critters are the usual goals, but awhile back his buddies got themselves organized for a trip to the wild west. Hulking bear and corpulent elk filled their heads and puffed their breasts (and luggage) as they set out on the long drive cross-country. In the Badlands of South Dakota, they made camp.
Ears popped up, and Mr. Murray took his shot. First kill in quest for large prizes: a rabbit. Dinner was to be had, though, so after skinning and gutting, that most prolific species cuniculus got sizzled right nice over the campfire. Just so happens the boys had some red wine with them . . . and a-simmering it was set, with the rabbit turned about therein. And as the night settled down on that no-man’s land vista, ghosts of bandits past perhaps creeping amonst the odd curves and layers, a verdict was given: ‘the best rabbit ever.’ 
I once believed that my stuffed animals would come alive at night, embark upon storytelling hours under the bed covers and whisk me into the next sunrise through a friendly version of the looking glass. This has happened, of course, as dreams tend to, when pursued through a lifetime. Through the looking glass, though, is more different than my eight-year-old self could imagine. Mr. Murray’s story reminds me of the numerous ‘ah-hah!’ moments that cooking brings to life. Be it with a dish of macarroni reminiscent of Mom’s, or a phenomenal bite of sushi somewhere in world travels, extraordinary moments are to be had everywhere in life with food. Sometimes that food is about surviving, sometimes about transcendence. But always memorable and always real.
And for old time’s sake, that wonderful passage from The Velveteen Rabbit: “What’s real?” asked the velveteen rabbit one day, when she and the skin horse were lying side by side. “Does it mean having things that buzz inside you and a stick out handle?” “Real isn’t how you’re made,” said the skin horse. “It is a thing that happens to you when a child loves you for a long, long time, not just play but really loves you—then you become real.” “Does it hurt?” asked the rabbit. “Sometimes,” said the skin horse, for he was always truthful. “When you are real you don’t mind being hurt.” “Does it happen all at once like being wound up, or bit by bit?” “It doesn’t happen all at once, you become—it takes a long time. That’s why it doesn’t often happen to people who break easily or have sharp edges or have to be carefully kept. Generally, by the time you are real, most of your hair has been loved off, your eyes drop out, and you get loose in the joints and very shabby. But these things don’t matter at all, because once you are real you can’t be ugly, except to people who don’t understand.” By Margery Williams
