Beantrees

My first seed order has arrived! Never has such a small box conveyed more promise and excitement for me. With this affirmation that I am a bonafide yeoman farmgirl, I figured that I ought to start behaving like a proper small business owner and begin keeping track of business expenses. So I traipsed on out to Staples, loaded up on printer ink, tupperware boxes, and filing supplies, and came home determined to put my farm in order.

I've been fortunate this winter, in that I've accumulated a small collection of second-hand seeds from Don, my former boss, and Katia, my future co-farmer, as well as some odds and ends I've picked up froms seed swaps and conferences. Second-hand seeds are the remainders at the end of the season, which, while not ideal, are still perfectly good, if you don't mind a little uncertainy in germination rates. I did some research about seed viability rates and set to work sorting my seeds into keepers and tossers.

Only, I have a really hard time throwing away seed. Even when I know it's virtually useless (onion seed, for example, is generally worthless after one year. So onion seed from 2006 will unquestionably suck), I kept pushing my tossers into a third pile, the "don't expect much from them, but hey, maybe a few will sprout?" group. I have a sneaking suspicion that a similar lack of willpower may account for Don's including 4-year-old onion seed in his gift to me...

Gradually, my collection took on a semblance of order, neatly sorted by family and best-by year. At the bottom of a box stuffed with empty seed envelopes from past years and some free samples packets of mixed greens, I stumbled across a strange treat: an unlabeled envelope from a 2008 seed swap. At the time of acquisition I was apparently without either a pen or good information, for the seeds within are completely anonymous, unanchored from variety name or grower identification. A few look to be parsnip seeds (no good by now, most likely), and some others are identifiable as lettuce, though no telling of what stripe. But then there are four huge red beans, lightly speckled with a few black streaks. I immediately thought of the story of Jack and the Beanstalk, imagining my little beans twining out a window and over the snow, climbing up into the clouds to fame and fortune. I tucked my mystery beans safely away for spring.

The Deep Freeze

Last night, I watched a movie all about dirt. The documentary was, in fact, entitled "Dirt!" (the exclamation point conveyed by the somewhat manic animation sequences depicting the microscopic life of dirt), and it did an admirable job of describing a conventionally unglamorous substance as worthy of awe and admiration. I came out of the screening with the same buoyant, yearning heart that Coca-cola commercials instilled in me as a child--I wanted to sink my hands into soil, to nurture seedlings, to walk barefoot on freshly turned earth. Which, by the way, is not a good way to preserve soil tilth, but which nevertheless is fiendishly tempting.

I came out into the snow and felt the first pangs of the winter farmer doldrums. Thus far, long- anticipated rest and other seasonal distractions have kept me from missing the dirt. Besides, I've been more than sufficiently busy, between planning next season, visiting family, and (lately) substitute teaching sixth grade math. But the numbers finally got to me. I'm tired of Excel spreadsheets, converting yield per foot into pounds of seed per acre. I'm overwhelmed by seed catalogues and their relentlessly positive descriptions. I'd like some more kale to accompany my veal and potatoes. Watching "Dirt!", I felt envy rise in my chest at the muscles and tan lines of farmers. I'm winded by a romp in the snow, and I haven't lifted anything heavier than a cast iron skillet in months.

I have a plan, however. As soon as I am unemployed again (but before the financial ramification of this state have fully sunk in), I'm buying some dirt. Potting soil, some trays, a few more sprouting jar lids. I'm going to fire up the grow lights that Andrew's grandmother donated to the cause, and I'm going to grow. I'll start my onions, certainly, but I think I'll throw some greens into the mix as well. Maybe a kumquat tree for the corner? Or perhaps I could convert the defunct front porch to our cottage into a very cold cold frame?

Then again, I might feel completely satisfied simply to sit on the kitchen floor with a handful of finished compost, entranced by the sweet promise of fecundity.

The Best Laid Plans

Late last night, I finally watched the film Julie and Julia--the parallel story of Julia Child and here twenty-first century devotee and blogger, Julie Powell. Unsurprisingly, half way through the film I found myself guiltily reflecting on my lax blogging as of late while simultaneously chastising myself for the self-aggrandizing thought that anyone other than me had lost any sleep over this lapse. I sincerely hope not. But here I am, back, more in love than ever with butter (the taciturn third protagonist of the film), and ready to recommit.

I also have news of next year, which I am very excited to share! Having apparently learned nothing from the climatic disaster that was the past year in Massachusetts, I am sticking out another season in the frigid Northlands, this time in Barre, MA at Misty Brook Farm. Misty Brook is primarily a raw milk dairy, though they also raise veal, beef, pigs, chickens, hay, feed corn, several field crops, and two small children. As you can see, about the only agricultural thing they don't do is vegetables, which is where Andrew and I come in. Brendan and Katia (the farmers) want to create a Whole Farm CSA using their meat, eggs, and milk, so they have offered me an acre of their land on which to grow vegetables for the CSA and their farmstand. Andrew, who has wanted to learn about raw milk dairying for several years, will divide his time between the animals and the vegetables while I will remain a full-time vegetable grower. Rather than paying us a salary, they will allow us to use their equipment, to live in their house, and to keep all of the proceeds from the vegetables.

This is, quite possibly, the best deal I EVER could have imagined, short of someone saying, "Here are 50 acres of Class I, weedless soil, tractors, and a room full of hungry locavores. And next season will have perfect weather. Merry Christmas!"

Since I finished at Caretaker, we've been making periodic pilgrimages to Barre--to plant garlic, to hammer out the details of our arrangement, and most recently, to discuss the website Andrew and I have designed. As of yesterday, it launched! Interweb addict that I am, this is an extremely pleasing development to me.

The coming season will be what I make of it, and I have the whole winter to plan. I've been plotting yield numbers (hopefully conservative ones), laying field plans, researching greenhouses, selecting seed varieties, and accumulating tools. Along the way, I am reminded of how fortunate we farmers are in our seasonal rest. I have the time and the mental space to envision next year from start to finish, to design new efficiencies, to rethink old habits. As a natural list-maker, I eat this stuff up.

It seems appropriate to me that this is the season of Advent within the church. Advent is (at least in theory) a time of expectant waiting and preparation. Ecclesiastically speaking, these are the days to get your house in order, to prepare for the Christmas season and all of the new life that follows. True, winter has only begun to sink itself into my Massachusetts soil and will not relent on December 25th. A few days ago, I tried to dig up a frozen parsley plant for its root. I had read that you can "force" a parsley root to sprout as you would an endive, simply by bringing it inside and keeping it in a pot of moist sand. The prospect of fresh greenery sent me out into the cold, to stab at the rigid earth with an old trowel. I was rebuffed. The Advent of the earth is not yet over, nor will be for some time. Though I sometimes long for it, I am not yet ready for the imperative that is spring. Patience is a wintery virtue.

Now is the time to sleep deeply and dress warmly and to dream of the year to come.

Bringing Home the Bacon (Fat)

Given the glut of food propaganda, I think it is high time for me to join the fray. The way I figure, vegetables have plenty of champions, from Michael Pollan to Michelle Obama. Meat has Joel Salatin, a staunch defender if ever I met one. Even high fructose corn syrup has its defenders (though I'm more a fan of the rebuttal, myself). So I'm going to defend fat: poor under appreciated, unloved fat.

I like fat so much that I've got jars of lard, schmaltz, and tallow (that's pork fat, chicken fat, and beef fat, for the unitinitiated) in my refrigerator, as well as the old standby, butter. Oh, and that's next to a package of bacon ends, which is essentially bacon fat with a tiny bit of bacon attached. As a social experiment, I've taken to showing off my collection to friends and gauging their reaction. Some folks (women especially, I find) shrink back in horror, as though my jars might reach out and slap love handles on them just for looking. Others give me a polite "wow...that's a lot of fat" before skilfully changing the subject to a less disturbing topic like animal slaughter. But a few--the enlightened, I like to think of them--smack their lips and ask me how my pie crusts have been turning out lately. "Golden and flaky, thank you very much," I reply.

Why this sudden enthusiasm for the pariah of the food pyramid?

Well, flavor, for starters. Fat molecules make the bits of food they are attached to move more slowly across the tongue, which gives our tastebuds time to register flavor. When used judiciously, fat, like salt, is a flavor enhancer. This would be the reason why Lean Cuisine tastes disturbingly similar to its cardboard packaging (among other reasons made clear by the ingredient list).

But beyond purely epicurian reasons, I love my fat because I know exactly where it all came from. The chicken fat and beef fat were the byproducts of my stock. The long simmering of the stock rendered the raw animal fat into a purer, less perishable form, and once my pots had cooled, I easily skimmed the fat off the top. The lard I made from pork fat (also from Polyface), cooked down in a crockpot over about eight hours. The best part is that animals fats acquired in this way--from skimming the fat of your stock or rendering lard--are cheaper than anything at the grocery store. We bought 10 pounds of pork fat at $1 per pound (a pretty standard price, I think), and from that we rendered one gallon of lard. That price is equal to or only slightly more than the price of canola oil at the groceries near my house.

Fat, animal fat in particular, is not something I would acquire just anywhere, however. Animals store the residues from any chemicals, antibiotics, or hormones they are exposed to in their fat, where it will be passed on up to foodchain to whomever dines on them. You can bet that the lard on sale in big buckets at the grocery store did not come from pastured pork. Too often nutritional advice lumps all products of a sort together, without any recognition of the difference that production and processing can make. (This is one reason why so much conventional wisdom advises health-conscious consumers to avoid beef. In nutrition studies, feedlot beef has been linked to health problems for the consumer and environmental degradation--but the nutritional composition of grass-fed versus grain-fed beef are quite different. Equating the two would be like comparing grapefruits to lemons.)

My choosiness extends to other, non-animal fats, however. Particularly because I cannot be a part of the production and processing of vegetable fats, I like to look for fats that are relatively unprocessed and unlikely to go rancid. (Rancid oils are carcinogenic.) Thus olive oil, sesame oil, and coconut oil are all in my larder, while canola, safflower, and cottonseed (seriously, who thought that eating the oil from cotton seeds was a good idea?) will not find welcome there.

You can argue all day long about the merits of saturated (animal) versus unsaturated (plant) fats, but the way I see it, the best fat is one the provenance of which I know. And boy does it ever taste good...

How To Render Your Own Lard

First, cut the fat into pieces, the better to fit it into your crock pot. If you notice any remaining bits of meat on the fat, trim them off, as they will give the lard more of a porky flavor (I prefer a more neutral cooking oil).

Stuff the crock pot as full as you like, but be sure that the lid seals. Set the heat on low, and return in 6-8 hours, depending on how much fat you began with. (If you have a crockpot with a timer, you can do this overnight). The lard is finished when it is mostly liquid (not all of the fat will render). It's a judgment call, really.

Once finished, strain the liquid lard though a fine mesh colander to remove any residual solids and let it cool to snowy whiteness. Lard will keep longer in the fridge, though you can leave it on the counter if you are using it up in a matter of months. In hot weather at room temperature, it will be liquid, though if you keep it in the fridge it will be solid enough for pie crust-making.

Pastured Poultry Preservation

Recently, preparing to leave Massachusetts for a sojourn in the sunny south, I surveyed my winter stockpile of provisions with a critical eye. I needed stock. Chicken stock. Lots of chicken stock. What, after all, is a cold winter’s day without a pot of soup steaming on the stovetop and a mug of cocoa reanimating my frosted fingers? Admittedly, homemade stock has never been my strongpoint—for an embarrassingly long time I suffered under the illusion that one chicken’s worth of bones, if simmered long enough, could magically transform an entire pot of water into a rich, fragrant base for soups. This is patently untrue, as a succession of “subtle” (read: watery) stocks demonstrated. With vegetable stocks I had equally unfortunate results, primarily because I could never bring myself to sacrifice a sufficient quantity of perfectly good veggies to the stockpot. (The one time I did manage to achieve vegetable broth nirvana, as part of an over-ambitious soup-in-a-pumpkin spectacle, I ran a tab of about $50. For soup. Never again, Whole Foods).

But this time around I had several secret weapons: The River Cottage Meat Book, the most scrumptious treatise on carnivory ever composed, 75 lbs of chicken backs and too-small-for-sale birds, and a knowledgeable assistant. OK, so maybe Andrew was actually in charge. He spent the season working at Polyface Farm, our source for stock birds and a perfect stopping point in my seasonal migration from north to south. When I learned that we could borrow a kitchen and two pressure canners in return for one night of feeding the crew, I decided that it was time to purchase additional canning jars, and perhaps buy stock in the Ball company.

Do not be deceived by my history of failure: making a good stock is fantastically simple. As long as you avoid the two great sins of stock-making—overboiling and underpacking—you cannot fail. First, you must pack the pot tightly with your bones and/or meat and add only enough water to cover everything. Second, you must maintain your pot at the most tremulous of simmers for 3-6 hours. We added a few carrots, some celery stalks, and several quartered onions to our brew, but eschewed the addition of any salt. While “salt to taste” seems to be the directive that commercial stock companies cook by (check out the sodium content on that Campbell’s soup!), we wanted to save the salting step for the distant day when we use our stock. Besides, our stock was so flavorful that we didn’t need salt in order to taste the chicken-y goodness.

Several hours later, with the afternoon sun streaming into the kitchen, we began to decant our stocks one by one, first pulling out whole birds, necks, and backs, then carefully straining the broth through a fine sieve. Internet sleuthing had revealed that the fat in our stock could interfere with a proper canning seal or cause the stock to go rancid, so we covered the pots, stashed them in my cat-proof car to chill for the night, and made plans to regroup in the morning. Chicken as air freshener—I think it will really catch on.

Then we cooked dinner for 12 hungry farmers.

Morning found us in the kitchen again, skimming off the risen fat and preparing the safe-like pressure canner for duty. Low acid foods like stock require the high heat of a pressure canner for safe home canning. Please don’t ever use a water bath and call it even—it isn’t. You can, of course, freeze your stock and store it for at least a year, but with our freezer bursting from 130 lbs of veal, we felt that canning made the most sense. We saved the chicken fat (schmaltz) for matzoh balls, stir-fries, and spreading on bread, and we canned our eighteen quarts of stock in just a few hours.

Coming soon: What We Did While the Stock (tremulously) Simmered or In Defense of Fat or Why “Lard-Bucket” is Really a Term of Endearment

The Decline and Fall of Western Civilization

Lacking Visigoths banging at the gates, we must look for subtler clues that our civilization is in decline. I found one yesterday, much to my chagrin, on the packaging of mason jar replacement lids. The title of the recipe read: Enjoy Mild Fiesta Salsa Year-Round!

Sounds good, right? A recipe for home canners? About that... The recipe calls for 5 cans of diced tomatoes, 1 package of "Mild Fiesta Salsa Mix," and canning jars. So basically you take the tomatoes out of the can, add salsa mix, and re-can them.

Let me first say that I have nothing against store bought salsa. Many a Superbowl party would not exist were it not for the good people of Tostitos and Green Mountain Gringo. They make good stuff. And I'm not even going to complain about salsa mix, even though it wouldn't be my first choice. I do have a weakness for cream cheese and onion dip mix, after all. What appalls me is the absurdity of combining canned tomatoes and premade salsa mix and canning the results! It flies in the face of the whole ethos of canning. It would be like bringing a McDonald's apple pie to a bake sale and calling it your grandmother's secret recipe. Canning is, to me, a labor of love. It is about saving energy (rather than shipping something around the globe and then preserving it not once but twice). It is a call for authenticity and traceability in food.

It is not a call for Mild Fiesta Salsa.

The Real Deal on Veal

I’ve never been a big fan of traditional signs of love and commitment: flowers, rings, buying a dog together. Instead, Andrew and I bought a veal calf and a chest freezer.

This is the culmination of my quest, begun one year ago, to confront my own questions about the appropriateness of eating meat. I’ve had my doubts, guilty moments in between the ecstasy of bacon and a heaping portion of Thanksgiving turkey. But I always deferred my uncertainty by vowing to give the issue more thought—someday—later—when I had more control over my plate.
And eventually that day came. Last year, at Serenbe, we raised meat chickens, and I learned the tricks of a quick kill and a clean evisceration. I surprised myself by my lack of squeamishness after the first lightheaded moments of slaughter. My actions had purpose and continuity. I felt not guilt but gratitude. Honestly, though, participating in a chicken slaughter is not particularly hard on the emotions. It is easy to view chickens as something close to a crop; indeed, a flock of Cornish Cross broilers can be raised to slaughter weight in less time than it takes to grow a tomato.

Cows are an entirely different story. Here at Caretaker, we name our cows: Lucy and Lukey, the beef cow mamas, Albert and Rusty, their offspring (and future beef steers), Chloe, dairy cow and queen of the farm, and Jingle Bells, Chloe’s male Jersey calf. They are endearing. They have personalities. And in the case of Jingle Bells, we helped shepherd him into the world. Don pulled; Chloe strained; the slick little spindly calf fell out onto the hay, and we all released breaths we hadn’t realized we were holding.

Once we recognized his sex, however, his fate was sealed. A functioning farm does not have room for purposeless beasts, either human or animal. Just as we will rise each morning and tend to the crops and chores, the animals must earn their keep. Barn cats are mousers, chickens lay eggs, Chloe gives milk, and a male cow can only, unfortunately, be meat. We had hoped for a heifer calf, which we could raise up and sell to be someone else’s dairy cow, but the chromosome lottery had other plans.

Why not keep Jingle Bells, or at least raise him up to be a two-year-old steer? As a Jersey calf, rather than an Angus or a Hereford, for example, he would never put on the weight to justify the hay he would eat all winter long. Additionally, Jersey genetics, which give their milk its richness and their butter its golden color, would render his fat an unappetizing yellow, were he to grow to maturity..

His purpose could only be meat, and in that we tried to value and respect him. So he lived with his mother every day on pasture. He drank his fill of milk (occasionally more than his fill, perhaps), and sometimes liked to race us down the hill. Probably, if cows had any concept of the arithmetic of domestication, they would not have chosen to live so closely with us. But then again, perhaps they would. Chloe seems none the worse for the loss of her calf. She likes people and the treats that they bring her. She trots up when you call and still plots ways to eat pumpkins.

As for me, I am at peace with the contents of our extremely retro freezer. My meat was not a disembodied commodity, but a piece of this farm, which I dearly love.