...and the Winner Is...

(Epilogue to "Choosing the Right Roo", Dec. 7th)

What if High School students across America were required to attend at least one single butchering session before graduating? Like Sex Ed, or Drivers Ed, "Meat Ed" would be another class assumed necessary for the well rounded student. Oh let's imagine the proposal for real now. Mothers across America would revolt since it would be all too disturbing for American youth. Of course, many of these would likely be the same teens who spend hours blasting away at Mortal Combat and resent having to depart from predator mode when called downstairs to partake of whatever "it's what's for dinner".

In 1974, my Junior High School Social Studies teacher put our class through the most unforgettable and insidious of exercises. Fifteen students were selected to come to the front of the class. Each was assigned an identity including a new name and occupation. Only problem was - there was room enough for only SEVEN people in the bomb shelter! So, each kid standing would have opportunity to explain themselves and persuade why THEY should be allowed to remain. This would be followed by a number of voting rounds which would discern who stayed, and who would be cast out into the radioactive dust cloud above.

Remember that this was during the middle of the cold war when a great deal of anxiety about this type of matter prevailed. Stupid thing was, there was no need to vote. Every kid in that class knew who the survivors would be: the doctor, the lawyer, and the banker, with the left over slots going to the most popular kids. 

Shy and short on social status, I was randomly selected to come forward to the front of the class. My new name was "Hazel Meyers", and if that wasn't bad enough, my profession was - Home Economics Teacher!  Next to me stood Jane Harmon, the fourth most popular girl in all of Junior High School! Her new identity was a fellow named "Dan Gay" (honestly!) who made his living as a guitar player.

 
Now, in those days, all girls were required to take Home Ec. It was a joke, really and everybody knew it. As I recall, we made an apron once on a sewing machine, and I think we made chocolate chip cookies. Boys, in contrast, were required to take a shop course where among other cool things, they made a clock. Like many, I was exceedingly envious, but that was the way of things.

So there I stood, suddenly in the spotlight! My big chance to make a case as to why I, Hazel Meyers, should remain inside the safety of the bomb shelter.  For some reason though, all I could think of in that moment was the practicality of knowing how to build a clock. After all, someone would have to restart time up there or it would all be total chaos. Time bombs came to mind, though I wasn't sure if the A-bomb was triggered in this manner, and we didn't actually have a nuclear physicist on the panel anyway. But heck, even the ability to take apart a clock to salvage metal might be handy in a pinch - particularly if someone had forgotten to pack a can opener or something! For the life of me, I couldn't think of a single contribution a humble Home Ec teacher could make toward furthering humanity. Everything, it seemed to me, was typically available at a Safeway store, and thank God for those in real life or it would REALLY be Lord of the Flies out there! (sigh)

With not much to go on, I was wiped out in the first round. I returned to my desk and slumped into my seat. Poor Hazel, she could sew aprons with the best of 'em but it just wasn't enough to save her. Dejected, I watched as round, after round, Dan the Guitar Man made it closer and closer to the final cut.Well of course! Why should a little nuclear war interrupt the evolution of Heavy Metal?   



...But what IF our Home Ec teacher had actually taught us something useful? Soap or yarn making? Medicinal herbs? Canning or drying techniques? How to make a sewing pattern? How to sterilize a tool?  As I think back on it, I should have been the first one preserved! When on earth did we lose our desire to know how to fabricate for ourselves those things we rely on most?         


It's been thirty odd years since that ridiculous exercise. I'm not suggesting that Home Ec. teachers across America begin preparing us for Armageddon or arranging field trips to the nearest slaughter house, it's just that more than ever these days, we indulge in the virtual world, shooting at big game we will never skin, erecting Farmvilles we will never visit, so... is there really any value in knowing how to milk a cow? Pluck a chicken or harvest a potato? I'd bet my favorite apron on it.



I don't enjoy executing an innocent animal. I never should...but there is a reward which goes much deeper than a fine meal. As a result of completing this circle, we have a profound respect for our meat. The legacy our table bird offers his left behind constituents is our commitment to their well being. Knowing their eventual destiny, we work hard to provide them the best life possible. They are clean, content, well fed. To borrow a phrase, "on our farm, a chicken has only one bad day". I am both master, and servant, and I begin to forget this when that all important, graphic step has been removed.  


For those of you wondering about our flock:

Salt & Pepper dressed out at 4 lbs. precisely. Not bad for a homegrown bird. Immediately behind our Am/Lang cross weighed in at 3.15 lbs. The rest followed.

Our keepers include Razzle Dazzle Boy in hopes that, without all the competition, his protective instincts will catch up with his foraging abilities.   

Inspired by his decision not to submit to adversity, State & Main also will remain to help perpetuate our stock. He'll never fly, but his future sons will soar.
   

And by popular vote, via online or comment, Soupy was the clear winner by a landslide, though we're not keeping him.

...instead (and thanks to you), he has been retained and will be submitted for sale on Craig's List. We're confident that someone out there can use a good flock roo...

Oh, and by the way, we don't call him Soupy anymore. We've changed his name and given him a whole new identity. He's now known as "Danny Gaye" - Rock Star!

Choosing the Right Roo.

I'm not fond of matchmaking, but like it or not, it is a part of my duty. Of our 31 chickens, 22 hens are counting on me to make a good decision. That means there are 9 little cockrals in the draft pick this year. We will be selecting two.

Goals and criteria: To create a flock whose offspring will help fill our freezer. We're as of yet, not concerned with growth rate. The king's harem will consist of some good dual purpose gals including Orpingtons, Marans, Delawares and Cornish. We are also looking for a Roo who will protect his flock and pose no threat to we humans. A flogging roo is dangerous. We went through 3 aggressive roos before we found a good one; they helped shaped the policy on our farm -Ya get two shots at us. First one is "an oops". Second one is confirmation. Crock pot fodder.

Before we introduce this year's line up of competitors, we pay homage to our late great Rooster, Omar Krugerrand, may he rest in peace. (What else do you name a Gold Lace Wyndotte?)

Krug was a wonderful flock leader and protector. Twice I witnessed him spring into action to move his harem under cover as an American Bald Eagle glided a mere 40 feet above looking for a good early bird special. Impressive.

Unfortunately, Krug was sterile. Not a swimmer in the league. Each time a hen would go broody, I'd have to buy fertile eggs from the fancier up the road. (Some of those foster babies are now in this year's running!) Sadly, Krug met his match this past summer in a tangle with a raccoon. I imagine he went down just as he'd wished to, protecting his girls. We found evidence splashed all over that chicken yard of the battle that occurred that night ...but not a single hen was harmed.
"RIP Omar Krugerrand".

And so, with no further ado, here are this year's top 5 contenders:

# 1 - Salt & Pepper.

We have no idea what this bloak is made of, but he's colloassal! Due to sheer size, he's taken over the throne for now. He's not particularly popular with the gals however, (especially our petite little bantams), but he has tremendous size to offer. He's a deep, throaty baritone with quite a bellow. I've never seen a study comparing carcass weight to depth of voice. If he doesn't make the cut, I may start one.

# 2 Razzle Dazzle Boy, a.k.a.Black Beard

Quite the looker, this Americana/Gold Lace Wyandotte X has surprised us by showing his devotion to his girls by finding food for them. When he stumbles upon some delectable, he clucks to bring attention, then  repeatedly picks it up and drops the morsel again to show the gals what he's found. Unfortunately, they treat him like a wet food stamp, and just walk on by. This could be because he has no appreciable skills at romance. To maintain our PG rating, we'll forgo the details, but suffice to say that so far, his courtship dance consists of chasing the poor girl around the yard until it all ends with a flutter of feathers and some 'fowl' expletives.

# 3 - State & Main

At less than 6 months this Langshan/Maran X already has an amazing story of endurance and triumph. Look closely again at that picture. Notice that he's missing a wing? State & Main incurred a major injury as a chick, but he survived just the same. Unfortunately his disability has affected his self esteem. He's bullied by the other cockerals a lot, but the girls still follow him around perhaps because he's less of a threat. Despite being physically challenged, he has demonstrated his ability to breed, but frankly he's much more gentle about it, and therefore, quite the playboy. Go S& M!

# 4 - Stilts Boston

"Stilts" is an Americana /Langshan X. He's young and not quite filled out, but as you can see, he's all leg. Aloof and hard to photograph, he gets less play with the ladies since he usually avoids confrontation. If there's a cock fight, he's seldom in it. A good temper is a good sign. He also has a sweet, sustained tenor crow which has to count for something cause lets face it - I'm going to have to listen to it A LOT! His greatest distinguishing attribute are those incredible drum sticks, which genetically means that (hopefully), crossed over a meaty little hen, that's a lot of leg to fill!  Although, as one friend commented, "That's what turkeys are for".



# 5 - "Soupy"

Most hatcheries guarantee that a sexed batch of "pullets" is 99% accurate. Prized for their beauty, female Blue Laced Red Wyandottes are therefore typically sexed and separated before shipping (with the one caveate). Soupy was that one percent. Instead of developing the lovely lacing, he started crowing instead. He wouldn't have been in the line up at all except for his most notable act of  heroism. One morning a red tailed hawk flew into view and perched in a tree to observe. While all of the other cockerals were busy fighting or scratching, Soupy took notice,sounded the alert and shuffled a group of hens under cover along with two idiot guineas. While he's shown remarkable valor, Soupy will unfortunately never impress with his size and therefore may never outlive his name. Below he's pictured with his female counterpart. You can see, he's not much bigger.





















It's tough to be born a male on a farm since truthfully, we only need one. Culling is hard, but mandatory. The selection process is part of the agony, not only because of the losers who never get a chance, but because 'a good roo is hard to find'.

Got a favorite? The polls are now open.

Cheese making, experiments #1 and #2

Go ahead. Get a lactating goat and within a month, your refrigerator too will be chock full of mason jars with dates and labels. What to do with this endless bounty? Make cheese of course!

That period when your unemployed and budgets are tight is the perfect time to collect cheese making books,  equipment, supplies, and the creme de la creme - sign up for a cheese making class! (Oh they made it look so easy). Heck, nothing will make you feel like a bigger loser than your first attempt at “30 Minute Mozzerella”!

Now, at this point, I should preface by explaining that I failed chemistry – twice. In fact, dating a chemist was the highest score I ever got in the subject. This should foreshadow the results of my first experiment in this age old craft. Yep! It was a pure disaster. Oh, I achieved a clean break, but alas, my curds would not stretch. They lounged in a big lump on my cutting board and then shifted from a warm mass to a hard, bouncy white glob of Goodyear! You could caulk windows with that stuff.

 

I searched for answers. I consulted trouble shooters.

   “It was likely a problem with your P.H.”   

Nice. Now, if I were a chemist, I would know precisely which step in the process concerned PH and how to make the proper adjustment. (Sheesh).  

And so, I moved in another direction. I made Cajeta! (Caramel). This recipe merely involved reducing an over sweetened gallon of goat milk down to a sticky bronze mass. How could you screw that up? Turns out, ya can’t. The darker it gets, the more amazing the flavor. (Now, screwing up the pot, as I later learned, is another matter entirely). But the Cajeta it was a sweet success! In fact, it’s likely the most dangerous thing I’ve ever made. Ask any cardiologist.

Confidence re-boosted, I returned to mozzarella. I’m wiser now. I know the details those books don't mention. Things like, while the making of mozzarella might take only 30 mins, it takes over an HOUR for a double boiler to get to 155 degrees, or that you should prepare in advance for the lake of warm whey that will flood your counter, or that clean up will be an additional 45 mins. Best to make cheese while your partner is asleep!

The results of Experiment #2 was better - but no victory.  I increased my acidity. I let my curds rest longer. But this time, the curds were stubborn. They lay in gummy crumbles on the bottom of the strainer with not the least bit of interest in becoming a solid mass that could be heat treated and stretched. Determined,  I wadded them together into two balls and dipped them in hot water anyway, demanding that they behave.

If the first batch was like Goodyear, the second was like Silly Puddy – pliable and more friendly, but definitely providing ample chewing pleasure. Much of the curd made it to the chickens (again). I don’t want to think about the half life of those which slipped through the strainer and now reside in our septic system. I resent watching our goats pleasantly chewing their cud. It's their way of laughing at me, surely.

Will #3 be a charm? Don’t know. For now, I’ve repaired to my sofa with handfuls of Cajeta to salve my wounded ego and am pondering the fact that I have a goat which gives me ½ gallon of milk a day and I have no idea what to do with it.

Can hardly wait to try cheddar!

Today, the goats arrived.

We were out of bed early to drive to the van rental company. Renting the van - another story entirely: "So exactly what ARE you planning to use our van to move anyway?"  (I'm not prone to lying).

It's much like the arrival of a new baby, really. We know our lives will soon be completely changed, but we're not sure quite how. And oh, the anxiety. How will we know if they're eating enough? What does it mean when they sneeze? How will we know if they're cold? Frightened? We've taken vacation days knowing we'll want to check on them a hundred times a day... 

...Now, this all started 7 months ago with a milking bucket. Yep, we often begin from unusual base points. In fact, we occasionally step back and marvel over how the acquisition of a seemingly insignificant object suddenly avalanches into a whole new, life changing project. (Thank God we didn't buy an anchor!).

We drove 30 miles through pelting rain to meet the seller and purchase our "stainless steal". We didn't actually have goats at the time, nor fencing, nor a barn. But we were going to buy that bucket!  Ironically enough, the exchange took place at a Super Mall, a sharp contrast to our quiet, earthy farmstead. I'll bet we could'a searched through the entire 8 acres of shopping extravaganza and never have found a stainless steel milking bucket! Driving home proud as punch, polishing our new silver bucket, we knew it time to begin our search for some goats to go with it.

We opted for Kinder goats, a fairly new breed originally achieved by crossing Pygmy goats (Meat goats in Africa - Dog size pets in America) with a Nubian (the high strung, high butterfat, princesses of the goat world). The result? A smaller, dual purpose animal that seems to express the best of both breeds: wonderful rich product, without all the drama!

Our first walk around Zederkam Farm was educational. Turns out Hannah was looking for a home about the time we were looking for a goat. She was an unregistered purebred, unproven, painfully shy and of course - pregnant. Perfect! The pregnant part was much planned. You can't get milk without this initial, all important step! This, however, would be Hannah's first kidding (thus she was called a "first freshener").    

Our breeder was exceptionally helpful and offered to keep Hannah through her kidding, and then train her to the milk stand. In tandem, we returned every weekend for goat keeping lessons and visits. Desiring to be familiar and wonderful, we always made sure to bring treats. Pockets full! "Yippee! Must be Saturday. The 'Peanut Ladies' are here again!" 

On June 15th, Hannah gave birth to triplets. Two doelings and a handsome buckling (soon to be "wethered"). Since Hannah came pre-named, we christened her offspring, Verna, Nina and Otis.  Aren't they adorable? As one friend put it, "Those are the cutest lawn mowers I've ever seen".  Better yet, Hannah proved a worthy wager. She was an easy milker, with a sturdy udder, a good mother, sensible, though somewhat shy.What more could we ask for?

On July 5th the actual transaction took place. Our fate was sealed. We were goat owners. At home, construction on the goat barn accelerated. Frantic books on "How to Raise Goats" were acquired. A corner of the house became a collection point for the sundry items we'd need for our new arrivals: a grain scoop, mineral, feed bags, a pasteurizer.. (some of these items, not so cheap!). 

Weekends were split between building and our weekly visits. We learned to milk. We learned to trim hoofs. We learned about grade A, B & C. We learned not to be afraid of raw milk.

And now, we've come to the big day. We're all set. We have our barn, our bag balm, our bucket. Driving to the van rental company, we're quiet, each ruminating over our own thoughts, "Will it go smoothly? Will they like their new home? Will the fences hold? Will she kick and fuss about the new milking parlor?  Simultaneously, we're composing in our heads the words we'll need to reassure the rental guy one more time that the van won't be trashed after moving four goats to their new home. 

If Hannah had a blog, I wonder how it would start... "Today, we moved in with the peanut ladies.."

How to build a goat barn in 12 easy steps!

Step 1 - Buy a pregnant goat! (Nothing like a little pregnancy to inspire motivation ;o)

Step 2 - Select location. Be sure the area is sloping well and the soil is littered with 100 year old cedar stumps waiting to be unburied.

       

Step 3 - Purchase foundation blocks. Spend an entire week nudging and positioning all 13 so they are perfectly aligned and square.

 Step 4 - Add beams. These will be supported and held delicately into place with t-posts. Use a level to adjust them so they are plumb and vertical. Step carefully. Pray for windless nights.

Step 5 - Frame in the floor (naturally, this will need to be level, despite the sloping terrain).

Step 6 - Roof beams. Go to the hardware store for galvanized metal brackets. Buy more than you will ever need so you don't have to go back. Drag beams and brackets to work site. Immediately return to the hardware store for mosquito repellent.

Step 7 - Add cross beams. Stand back and adore work. Begin wondering how you're going to screw on  metal roofing sheets without falling through.

Step 8 - Add floor. Pray it does not rain.

Step 9 - Attach sides (if you have strength left after dragging them all the way down there!).  

Step 10 - Continue attaching sides. Realize that you have cut the left front section twice and the center front section - not at all. Return to lumber store for more sheets of ply and another whole bucket of stain.  

Step 11 - Discover that it's awfully dark in there without window. Remove section, cut window, and re-attach.

Step 12 - Complete with a swinging door after much thought toward the direction in which it should open.

Finally - Add happy goats :o)

Muscovy Ducks: The other red meat.

HEY GRANDPA!     WHAT'S FOR SUPPER?

Actually, we'll have to wait a few months before this troop is ready for the soup pot, but these are all muscovy ducklings from a single clutch - and that's not even our largest hatch! (Tops was 15 ducklings from a single hen, though there are usually some losses throughout the season). Yep! Muscovies are indeed prolific and the hens are pretty good mothers. What we're doing in this photo actually is moving the family to safer quarters. While geese are easy to herd, ducks are not, particularly a panicking hen with a large brood. We've learned that the easiest way to move them is not to try and herd the family, but to scoop up all the ducklings and carry them. Mom will eagerly follow.

Unlike the ducks with which you are likely familiar, Muscovies are quite different. In fact, if you've never seen one before, you might actually wonder what you're staring at. They're MUCH larger than ducks from "Mallard stock". They have claws, and red "carunkles" over their eyes. They do not quack, but communicate in an alien sort of way by hissing or bobbing their heads back and forth.

 ("Tuxedo" is our big male. His emerald plumage is beautiful in the sunlight, but lighter feathers make for prettier carcasses. We typically keep 1 male for 3 - 4 females).

 Muscovies are curious and friendly. The females are good flyers, (the males are too big for lift off), and the forage fairly well for themselves. They come in a variety of colors and patterns including pied, white, chocolate, green, blue, lavender and fawn. What I find particularly fascinating is that the ducklings look nearly all alike, but develop distinctive colors or patterns as they grow.

"Pinto" is one of our oldest and best mother hens. She has hatched numerous clutches. Her last successful attempt was in the dead of winter when she hid her eggs under a rabbit hutch and used stolen bits of rabbit fluff to build a fur lined nest! 

Dress weight for males are between 5 - 7 lbs. Females 4 - 5 lbs. The meat is ruby red. It resembles beef both in looks and flavor. We have cooked muscovy duck a number of ways over the years, but our favorite method is the lazy way - smoked duck. We discovered this one evening after the burgers were removed and we didn't want to waste charcoal. Here's how: Cool fire by stirring in a handful of moist fruit wood chips, slap on said duck and return to your TV watching. Turn bird every commercial break. After an hour or so - voila!

This past summer we had an explosion of muscovy ducklings thanks to three hens who avoided freezer camp by hiding in the bushes only to reappear 35 days later with a grand following. All told, I believe we had 40 ducks at one point.

We occasionally keep a lucky duckling that looks promising...but who stays and who goes is often a point of some contention. While one of us aims to perpetuate stock that's lighter and larger, the other of us selects for more sentimental reasons.  "P.D." for example, was kept because she looks like a police car.  Oy!

She's a pretty little thing who certainly seems the perfect blend of both her mom, AND her dad!

Greetings

"Consider it a newsletter to family and friends, but without all the multiple copies and stamp licking!". And with that, I was able to convince my reluctant Dear Partner that blogging could be a practical and non-dangerous undertaking, or at least no worse than the axe in the woodshed. I will begin at the beginning in a moment, but first a warm greeting to our readers, and a heartfelt thank you for your visits. I will try to provide an honest glimpse into our lives and activities, not all of which are progressive or by any measure a success. I may dig up the courage to share future goals along the way so you can muse over the progress (or lack thereof) toward meeting them. Your comments and suggestions are also welcome and we do hope to hear from you. Please drop us a note on your way out, and don't forget your muck shoes.

 

Little Cricket Farm was conceived in the comfort and elegance of a turn-of-the-century brownstone in the coveted Capital Hill neighborhood of Seattle. Was it a latent gene kicking in? or a sudden distrust in government's ability to maintain social security?  This remains uncertain, but it definitely started with goats.

Back when we had high speed in that lovely apartment, I stumbled upon a goat forum, and for some curious reason, a seed was planted. I made endless trips back to that website, lurking and listening in on conversations from goat owners across the globe. Suddenly, the flower box outside our kitchen window was simply not enough. Like a cascade of books falling from a shelf, an intense preoccupation developed concerning various types of livestock, plant growing techniques, soil management, barns, tractors, on and on. Maps, plans, and calculations became dreams on paper. Spyware trackers were dizzy with the fury of web browsing in a dozen different directions. On weekends, The Sunday Times was replaced with The Little Nickle. On summer evenings, I would gaze to the east from my balcony where miles and miles away I imagined a farmer must be finishing the last of  his chores, and his wife would be calling him in for dinner. 

It would be another year at least before the hot economy bubble lifted just enough that we could sneak into the party, and many more years before my hand would touch our goats. When the real estate transaction closed and we were proud property owners, I put a fistful of earth in a plastic baggy and sent it to my mother. And yet, the acreage was completely overgrown. The house was dilapidated, riddled with bullet holes and without central heating. (Our new neighbors brought us firewood the first year). I remember it was cold that first year, exhausting and wet. There were no street lights. No restaurants. We could hear wild things howling at night... I also remember the day we brought home our first two chickens, or the night we cooked our first complete home grown meal.

Would I do it again? Exchange all that luxury, the glittering lights of the city, a life of friends, theaters and dining out for the mud and uncertainty of the country? The answer depends on when you ask! 

  

There are tasks so grimy or overwhelming that the reply would be a resounding "no! Hell NO!"

 ...and then, there are moments so precious, so remote from most people's experience, so unimaginable back in that city apartment, I am filled with a feeling of life, truth, and immense fortune.   

   

Ah, c'est la vie!