The temperature has plummeted to 10 below this morning after a high of 40 something yesterday. Tomorrow it will roller coaster back up to the mid-30's before dashing down once again. It's good to have a little variety in our tundra existence. The wind was bracing and sharp when I stepped out the door this morning, 2 pails of water balanced on either side of me, a plastic bag full of greens, all for the geese. As if the bitter bite of the air weren't enough, Shmuel gave me a nip on the leg for good measure. For nothing really. Well, intrusion. I followed Frieda's (Richard's mother's) example and wapped him on his bill to snap him out of the biting urge which sent all of the geese into a jabbery ruckus. So be it. I had to trudge up and over quite a snowbank to get to the path - or luge run - we've chopped out up to the goose pen. Yesterday Shannon, the plower of our drive, came by with a brand spankin' new orange tractor, its tires wrapped in chains, ready for business. We were glad to see him because the warmth of the day had sent great masses of heavy snow from our roof slushing down plop all over our porch, in front of our garage, and various other inopportune places. He revved and shoved masses of the white stuff up into ever enlarging glaciers around our house. And to think this was the winter we weren't supposed to get much snow. Hmmm?
I'm here by myself today. Richard's at work and then teaches class and won't be back until 9:30 this evening. It's a solitary existence on these days, especially after a week in NYC where you really can't avoid people. And I love being around them. It's inspiring. It offers countless opportunities for interaction, compassion, curiosity, smile spreading, conversation, well wishing. There are those opportunities here as well, it's just a shift. One must seek them out. Well, one must seek them out everywhere, I suppose. One is free to shut off or welcome possibility wherever one resides. I have egg duty today. Every 2 hours or so I'll go check in on the 2 coops and gather eggs up before they freeze. We're getting over a dozen each day now. Good work, girls! I also will check in on the turkeys, now housed over at Royce's barn in an upstairs pied a terre that Richard has fashioned for them. I'll bring them over feed and lettuce which they love grab chomping out of my glove hand. They're all in fine fettle, with our tom looking especially fetching. Yesterday with the good weather we let the turkeys out to range and they inevitably congregate on our front porch. The propane people stopped by to top off our tank and our tom swelled his chest feathers and spread his tail feathers like a deck of cards to let all of us know who the male was around these parts. Very impressive. The girls stayed in a clutch by the woodpile, admiring their "guy." I think I could hear them murmur in turkey "Our hero" then they gave a sort of swoony gobble.
Chilly days make a good excuse to read and next up in the book department is Richard Wright's "Black Boy." If I'm in town, I intend on attending the book group that our local library hosts once a month every winter, facilitated by a member of the Vermont Dept of Humanities. Every year there's a different theme - 3 years ago, my 1st year, it was the Victorian novel; last year, the short story; and this year, memoir. It's a surprisingly engaging group, scintillating and vital and fun. I look forward to it. A celebration of books, of reading, of keeping the light of learning new things forever bright. I so enjoy it. And I hereby dub it, oh, let's say reason number 45 that I love living in Vermont. And 46 would be the appreciation of the vitality of older people in our society. What a joy it is witnessing an older population that embraces their age and does so with such vitality and curiosity, a torch burning ever bright, grateful for what their younger ages have brought them, but equally glad for what this chapter provides as well. It's so stimulating. I appreciate the richness of their lives. Hooray.
Time for an egg run, another log on the fire and a bit of a read. I wish you health and curiosity, reflection and appreciation, and maybe some warm bread and soup.
Tuesday, February 15, 2011
Friday, February 11, 2011
The Lengthening Light
First off, our geese are safe. No new paw prints AND yesterday our dear neighbor Royce, concerned about their safety as the predators in the surrounding woods get hungrier and more determined, volunteered to build a safer chicken-wired enclosure. True to his word our geese are now safe and sound within a lovingly constructed embrace. Thanks Royce.
With the snow at hip height and a deep chill in the air and in the bones, it does help noticing that the light is sticking around a little bit longer every day. Spring is out there, stored away in seeds, in the daffodils and tulips we planted in October, in the promise of the lengthening and strengthening light. It's put the slightest tease of change in the air. Soon, as our neighbor Gail likes to point out, we'll be able to see subtle changes in the color of the tree bark. A redness, a fullness. Another more evident sign will be the return of a Canada Goose pair to our pond to raise another group of goslings. Every year I wrestle with discouraging them from doing so, but nature wins out. Yes, the poop is prodigious, especially when added to our lot's contribution, but the sight of them on our pond is like a haiku, a gentle, floating meditation we're treated to every single day. (Speaking of goslings, the jury is still out about letting our geese raise any young. We plan to sell and ship out most if not all of their eggs, but are we depriving them of a piece of spring if we deny them the experience of parenting, protecting, and raising a gosling or 3? Is this injurious to their spirit? Do they even care? Probably not, but still ... ugh. It will come clear soon.)
Along with the outer signs, I can feel my thoughts and ideas unfurling and stretching too. They've been in a restorative hibernation, closed in on themselves, something needed each year, guided by the growing darkness, and now the lengthening light is inspiring a subtle shift in inner buoyancy. And to honor and encourage that growth, to celebrate the shift, I want to be growing something green inside our house. Forcing tulip bulbs, seeds, something fun. It would also be nice to finally order the seeds from the catalogue for the garden this year, a garden I hope to compartmentalize into raised, wood-sided beds. I don't know why I've been procrastinating about that. Hmmm? No worries. Today. I'll do it today.
Here's to lengthening lightness without and within. Spread it around.
I fly home to Vermont today after a week in NYC. I love both places, but it'll be good to get back home with all the animals.
With the snow at hip height and a deep chill in the air and in the bones, it does help noticing that the light is sticking around a little bit longer every day. Spring is out there, stored away in seeds, in the daffodils and tulips we planted in October, in the promise of the lengthening and strengthening light. It's put the slightest tease of change in the air. Soon, as our neighbor Gail likes to point out, we'll be able to see subtle changes in the color of the tree bark. A redness, a fullness. Another more evident sign will be the return of a Canada Goose pair to our pond to raise another group of goslings. Every year I wrestle with discouraging them from doing so, but nature wins out. Yes, the poop is prodigious, especially when added to our lot's contribution, but the sight of them on our pond is like a haiku, a gentle, floating meditation we're treated to every single day. (Speaking of goslings, the jury is still out about letting our geese raise any young. We plan to sell and ship out most if not all of their eggs, but are we depriving them of a piece of spring if we deny them the experience of parenting, protecting, and raising a gosling or 3? Is this injurious to their spirit? Do they even care? Probably not, but still ... ugh. It will come clear soon.)
Along with the outer signs, I can feel my thoughts and ideas unfurling and stretching too. They've been in a restorative hibernation, closed in on themselves, something needed each year, guided by the growing darkness, and now the lengthening light is inspiring a subtle shift in inner buoyancy. And to honor and encourage that growth, to celebrate the shift, I want to be growing something green inside our house. Forcing tulip bulbs, seeds, something fun. It would also be nice to finally order the seeds from the catalogue for the garden this year, a garden I hope to compartmentalize into raised, wood-sided beds. I don't know why I've been procrastinating about that. Hmmm? No worries. Today. I'll do it today.
Here's to lengthening lightness without and within. Spread it around.
I fly home to Vermont today after a week in NYC. I love both places, but it'll be good to get back home with all the animals.
Wednesday, February 9, 2011
Think Good Thoughts
(Writing from NYC) News from up North. Richard discovered many coyote paw prints all around the various chicken coops and pens and, most worrisome, right in the yard adjacent to the goose pen. The snow is so high and firm now that it's an easy hop over any fence we've erected. The collective honks of the geese and Shmuel must have startled the interloper away, but if he comes back with friends I don't think honking will be much of a deterrent. Richard jerry-rigged some chicken wire extensions to more solidly secure the pen, but ... but ... but ... think good thoughts. That's what I'm doing. My only recourse being down in the city through Friday. I'd appreciate yours.
Now on to other thoughts.
Since my last post Richard's hatch has come through. I believe he has at least 10 new chicks. Not as pure bred as he had hoped, though. He had expected pristine Wellsommers, but it seems as if a whole lot of humping has been going on in that coop and pure bred is out of the question. We've got mutts. Cute mutts, but mutts. Richard, though, being an inveterate hatch addict, is delighted no matter what they look like.
Inspired by his various flocks, Richard did a little flying of his own yesterday on Cape Air, a vaunted 9 seat Cessena airlines, from White Plains to Lebanon. The flight was delayed due to weather than mechanical difficulties than weather again. His original flight was supposed to have taken off at 8:20 am, but didn't leave the ground until 7:30 pm. Frustrating, but at least it did take off. There for a while they were planning on limo-ing him north starting at 7:30, getting him home well past midnight and having to work the next day. The flight was wind whipped, a wild ride, especially taking off and landing. Richard was incredibly impressed by the pilot's skill, however, especially on landing when he would line the plane up to the upcoming runway only to be blown to the side several times by the mighty wind. Each time he would methodically correct his trajectory and aim her in again. A bronco ride, in safely.
That's it for now. Remember ... good goose thoughts.
Now on to other thoughts.
Since my last post Richard's hatch has come through. I believe he has at least 10 new chicks. Not as pure bred as he had hoped, though. He had expected pristine Wellsommers, but it seems as if a whole lot of humping has been going on in that coop and pure bred is out of the question. We've got mutts. Cute mutts, but mutts. Richard, though, being an inveterate hatch addict, is delighted no matter what they look like.
Inspired by his various flocks, Richard did a little flying of his own yesterday on Cape Air, a vaunted 9 seat Cessena airlines, from White Plains to Lebanon. The flight was delayed due to weather than mechanical difficulties than weather again. His original flight was supposed to have taken off at 8:20 am, but didn't leave the ground until 7:30 pm. Frustrating, but at least it did take off. There for a while they were planning on limo-ing him north starting at 7:30, getting him home well past midnight and having to work the next day. The flight was wind whipped, a wild ride, especially taking off and landing. Richard was incredibly impressed by the pilot's skill, however, especially on landing when he would line the plane up to the upcoming runway only to be blown to the side several times by the mighty wind. Each time he would methodically correct his trajectory and aim her in again. A bronco ride, in safely.
That's it for now. Remember ... good goose thoughts.
Tuesday, February 1, 2011
Something Extraordinary.
Last Saturday morning Richard and I processed 3 of our roosters all by ourselves. Friday late afternoon I noticed that one of our prize layers, Pearl, was bloodied all over her back and wings. Pearl is one of Richard's favorite hens and when I told of her plight over the phone, he was skeptical about my identifying ability.
"Are you sure it's not one of the roosters? I'll bet it's one of the roosters."
'She's - its grey and white. It's Pearl.'
"Are you sure there weren't any rust colored feathers in with the grey."
'I didn't notice, I was focused on the blood.'
"Go check again."
So I checked again and sure enough, it was Pearl and Richard was upset. He mumbled something derisive about the roosters and said he'd be home as soon as he got off work. In the meantime, I got Pearl out of the coop and into a pet carrier and brought her into our warm utility room to soothe her and make her feel safe. And as I was doing this I was thinking "She doesn't seem that traumatized by the attack". And sure enough when Richard got home, he put Pearl on his lap and examined her in front of the fire.
"This isn't her blood."
'You're sure?'
'She's fine. It's the young roosters. They're getting into fights and wounding one another with their claws and then they hump the hens and bleed all over them."
Richard had been speaking before about these young turks causing trouble in the coop. Red Barber, our proud, colorful, and kind wellsommer rooster who looks as if he walked right off of a corn flakes box, remains our favorite. He rules the roost inside the coop and has a strict code of behavior when it comes to the treatment of all the hens. He brooks no unseemly behavior from the young guys, all of whom are probably his sons. No violent humping, no rape. Of course Red's mating encounters don't exactly look like a chapter out of "The Joy of Sex," but we'll let that slide for the moment. He's heroic and territorial, rushing to the rescue whenever he hears a startled squawk, always on the watch. That's probably the source of the blood, Red putting one of the three in his place.
"That's it!" Richard declared packing Pearl back up, "They're history." And once a Virgo makes a decision, there's no turning back. The 3 roosters were on their way to freezer camp!
The decision made, Richard went into plan mode.
"We'll need the big pot, filled with water."
'The big pot? The soup pot?'
"The canning pot, the big enamel one. What's the sharpest knife we have?"
'Probably the fish filleting one. You're doing it tomorrow?'
"Yes."
'How - what - where are you going to --?'
"I'll string their legs together, hang them by nails on a tree, drain them, and then pluck them."
'But -'
"What's the problem?"
"I don't - I just -" I was suddenly so hesitant and uncertain. I'd always been an advocate for getting rid of more chickens, what was up?
"What's up?"
'What about all the blood?'
"What?"
'There's going to be blood, right?'
"Obviously."
'Shouldn't you get a rubber apron like the processor's up north? Do you really want to get blood on your jacket? It's going to be messy." It was the actuality of doing it, doing it ourselves that was throwing me for a loop. And I knew Richard was actually going to be the one doing it, so why was I upset? Was it because I was still on the fence about eating meat, that every one of these events was leading me to a vegetarian lifestyle? No! I was deciding whether I wanted to take part in it, that I should take part, that this was something new, something big, this was something I knew I should do, that we should experience together, and yet ...
"They wear the aprons because they are surrounded by other workers and there are so many birds that they have to be extra careful about blood getting on them."
I was going to counter with the fact that the guy up by St Johnsbury where we'd taken 6 of our birds to be processed worked alone and he was in an apron, but Dan, really? And why would we ask this? Move forward. It's happening. Just go with it, decision made. Let it be.
The next day.
Both up early. 6 am. Coffee, fire stoked, birds watered and fed. Richard reminded me that he had to have this done by 11 when he had to leave for another scheduled event, so the clock was ticking.
We were in the coop.
"There they are." One by one Richard pointed out the three that were about to go to a far, far better place. The first was a handsome fellow, big, definitely Red's offspring, though the coloring was different, darker. I could tell Richard was fond of him, I could hear it in his voice, but he was still resigned to the chicken's fate. When describing the next one, however, Richard's tone changed completely. "He's a trouble maker." His voice was flat and fatal, Mr. Death was speaking. The third was pretty scrawny and Richard seemed unsure about including him with the others. But then a resolve took over.
"You're right, let's just do it." I guess I'd been thinking that.
The pot of water was on the stove, close to a boil. It felt as if we were making preparations for a birth. Richard pounded nails into three trees, then came back to the garage to spread newspapers and lay out things for the plucking. We had checked out our knives and none had seemed sharp enough, so Richard called our neighbors who offered several choices of razor sharp instruments.
'How can I help?' I offered.
"I'll catch the birds one at a time, then when I turn them upside down they should calm and that's when I need you to tie their legs together."
'Okay.'
"Then I'll take them back to the trees."
'I don't think I should watch.'
"I don't think you should either." It still seemed so strange and cruel, I was really divided, having seen this creature running around, vital and alive, sure, maybe a trouble maker, but to know we were going to very soon kill it, take it's life. Okay, it's just a chicken, but it seemed enormous to me. I tried my best to get some Barbara Kingsolver mojo going. The best idea I could muster was to be kind to the bird, to tell it thank you, thank you. I stood back by our small coop and watched Richard trudge through the knee high snow to the first nailed tree at the edge of the woods. I could hear him saying thank you to the bird as he did, calming him. The handsome, big bird was first. Richard hung him upside down on the tree then as quick as he could he slit the bird's throat with one swift cut.
"Shit." The knife hadn't been as sharp as he had thought. He cut again. And then again. The bird twitched and flapped. I tensed and must've given a disapproving sound and Richard defended himself.
"That's nerves! You've heard of chickens with their heads cut off running around? That's what's happening." I so wanted to criticize him, tell him he wasn't doing it right, that he was hurting the bird. 'Don't you know what you're doing?! You should know what you're doing!' But I didn't say that. He'd read about it, but I thought this was doing it, doing it for the first time. And there's a world of difference between theory or instructions and the real thing. Oh, but I wanted to denounce him with this authoritative, know it all, voice of great wisdom and reason. But if I knew so much, why didn't I have the knife. Bottom line, I didn't know. I was uncomfortable. It was upsetting. I just stood there mum and witnessed and supported the effort to the best of my ability. Yes, it would've been nice to have cones to put the chickens down into like the processors have, I could see now that that would calm them and keep them from flapping around, but we didn't have them and we were doing our best without them and that was that.
Richard caught the second rooster, the "trouble maker" and again I tied its legs and then followed them both to the woods, standing a little bit closer this time. And this time Richard was more deft and sure of himself.
"It's like they're going to sleep," he assured me having hit an artery cleanly. I could see the raspberry color of its blood syrup the snow. We prepared the third and I walked right up to the tree to watch and Richard explained what he was doing as he did it. And then we waited. 5, 10 minutes went by. They would flap a bit, but slowly life ebbed away. Strange, sad, new.
Next came the plucking. The large enamel pot of boiling water was precariously situated on a tiny hot plate on the garage floor. Richard had read on line that one was to dip the chicken into "just below boiling" water for 45 seconds - I think there was an exact temperature, but we didn't have a thermometer. The immersion would loosen the feathers and make plucking exceedingly easier. The birds had been beheaded by now, most all the blood drained into the snow by the trees. Richard hadn't been looking forward to this step of the game at all and after dipping the bird, he sat down with great consternation on his face, but with the first gentle tug, all this changed. The feathers came out with incredible ease. Amazing! Richard looked up with an open mouth and wonder in his eyes, as if he'd just seen a baby being born. Oh how gorgeous the feathers were, their patterns, the layering, the natural design. What an incredible creation. The smell certainly wasn't pleasant, like a wet winter coat, but the whole process was endlessly fascinating.
And I had to do it myself. I grabbed the next chicken and headed for the hot pot.
"Don't keep it dunked as long this time. It was too hot before and some of the skin started to come off," Richard advised and as he counted out the time he coached me "Okay, now swoosh him around, right, up and down, up and down, good. Now sideways, back and forth. Really get the water all through the feathers ..."
Oh, I almost forgot. After Richard plucked his bird, he dressed it as well. Would that be the term? "Dressed?" Gutted. He'd cleaned plenty of fish in his day, but never a chicken.
'I saw someone do it once and they were able to bring it all out in one tug, almost as if it was in its own sac,' I offered and we walked each other through step-by-step, almost as if we were on a tv cooking show.
'Could we have an overhead shot of this, Frank'
And then after I had the experience of plucking my bird, I too had the experience of gutting and cleaning it. And every step of the way - I don't know how to describe it otherwise - there was such a respect for and honoring of its life. Knowing this bird was going to give us sustenance and nourishment and that our bodies through ingesting it would transform their bodies into energy and calories and life. The whole cycle of life, being part of it in a new way, was so potent and vivid and clear.
We put the newly dressed chickens into a bucket of cold water for a while, then, after cleaning up the garage a bit, we dripped them dry, wrapped them in plastic bags and put them in the freezer.
"This was something major today," Richard said. "Probably the biggest thing we've done together since we moved here."
I think he's right.
"Are you sure it's not one of the roosters? I'll bet it's one of the roosters."
'She's - its grey and white. It's Pearl.'
"Are you sure there weren't any rust colored feathers in with the grey."
'I didn't notice, I was focused on the blood.'
"Go check again."
So I checked again and sure enough, it was Pearl and Richard was upset. He mumbled something derisive about the roosters and said he'd be home as soon as he got off work. In the meantime, I got Pearl out of the coop and into a pet carrier and brought her into our warm utility room to soothe her and make her feel safe. And as I was doing this I was thinking "She doesn't seem that traumatized by the attack". And sure enough when Richard got home, he put Pearl on his lap and examined her in front of the fire.
"This isn't her blood."
'You're sure?'
'She's fine. It's the young roosters. They're getting into fights and wounding one another with their claws and then they hump the hens and bleed all over them."
Richard had been speaking before about these young turks causing trouble in the coop. Red Barber, our proud, colorful, and kind wellsommer rooster who looks as if he walked right off of a corn flakes box, remains our favorite. He rules the roost inside the coop and has a strict code of behavior when it comes to the treatment of all the hens. He brooks no unseemly behavior from the young guys, all of whom are probably his sons. No violent humping, no rape. Of course Red's mating encounters don't exactly look like a chapter out of "The Joy of Sex," but we'll let that slide for the moment. He's heroic and territorial, rushing to the rescue whenever he hears a startled squawk, always on the watch. That's probably the source of the blood, Red putting one of the three in his place.
"That's it!" Richard declared packing Pearl back up, "They're history." And once a Virgo makes a decision, there's no turning back. The 3 roosters were on their way to freezer camp!
The decision made, Richard went into plan mode.
"We'll need the big pot, filled with water."
'The big pot? The soup pot?'
"The canning pot, the big enamel one. What's the sharpest knife we have?"
'Probably the fish filleting one. You're doing it tomorrow?'
"Yes."
'How - what - where are you going to --?'
"I'll string their legs together, hang them by nails on a tree, drain them, and then pluck them."
'But -'
"What's the problem?"
"I don't - I just -" I was suddenly so hesitant and uncertain. I'd always been an advocate for getting rid of more chickens, what was up?
"What's up?"
'What about all the blood?'
"What?"
'There's going to be blood, right?'
"Obviously."
'Shouldn't you get a rubber apron like the processor's up north? Do you really want to get blood on your jacket? It's going to be messy." It was the actuality of doing it, doing it ourselves that was throwing me for a loop. And I knew Richard was actually going to be the one doing it, so why was I upset? Was it because I was still on the fence about eating meat, that every one of these events was leading me to a vegetarian lifestyle? No! I was deciding whether I wanted to take part in it, that I should take part, that this was something new, something big, this was something I knew I should do, that we should experience together, and yet ...
"They wear the aprons because they are surrounded by other workers and there are so many birds that they have to be extra careful about blood getting on them."
I was going to counter with the fact that the guy up by St Johnsbury where we'd taken 6 of our birds to be processed worked alone and he was in an apron, but Dan, really? And why would we ask this? Move forward. It's happening. Just go with it, decision made. Let it be.
The next day.
Both up early. 6 am. Coffee, fire stoked, birds watered and fed. Richard reminded me that he had to have this done by 11 when he had to leave for another scheduled event, so the clock was ticking.
We were in the coop.
"There they are." One by one Richard pointed out the three that were about to go to a far, far better place. The first was a handsome fellow, big, definitely Red's offspring, though the coloring was different, darker. I could tell Richard was fond of him, I could hear it in his voice, but he was still resigned to the chicken's fate. When describing the next one, however, Richard's tone changed completely. "He's a trouble maker." His voice was flat and fatal, Mr. Death was speaking. The third was pretty scrawny and Richard seemed unsure about including him with the others. But then a resolve took over.
"You're right, let's just do it." I guess I'd been thinking that.
The pot of water was on the stove, close to a boil. It felt as if we were making preparations for a birth. Richard pounded nails into three trees, then came back to the garage to spread newspapers and lay out things for the plucking. We had checked out our knives and none had seemed sharp enough, so Richard called our neighbors who offered several choices of razor sharp instruments.
'How can I help?' I offered.
"I'll catch the birds one at a time, then when I turn them upside down they should calm and that's when I need you to tie their legs together."
'Okay.'
"Then I'll take them back to the trees."
'I don't think I should watch.'
"I don't think you should either." It still seemed so strange and cruel, I was really divided, having seen this creature running around, vital and alive, sure, maybe a trouble maker, but to know we were going to very soon kill it, take it's life. Okay, it's just a chicken, but it seemed enormous to me. I tried my best to get some Barbara Kingsolver mojo going. The best idea I could muster was to be kind to the bird, to tell it thank you, thank you. I stood back by our small coop and watched Richard trudge through the knee high snow to the first nailed tree at the edge of the woods. I could hear him saying thank you to the bird as he did, calming him. The handsome, big bird was first. Richard hung him upside down on the tree then as quick as he could he slit the bird's throat with one swift cut.
"Shit." The knife hadn't been as sharp as he had thought. He cut again. And then again. The bird twitched and flapped. I tensed and must've given a disapproving sound and Richard defended himself.
"That's nerves! You've heard of chickens with their heads cut off running around? That's what's happening." I so wanted to criticize him, tell him he wasn't doing it right, that he was hurting the bird. 'Don't you know what you're doing?! You should know what you're doing!' But I didn't say that. He'd read about it, but I thought this was doing it, doing it for the first time. And there's a world of difference between theory or instructions and the real thing. Oh, but I wanted to denounce him with this authoritative, know it all, voice of great wisdom and reason. But if I knew so much, why didn't I have the knife. Bottom line, I didn't know. I was uncomfortable. It was upsetting. I just stood there mum and witnessed and supported the effort to the best of my ability. Yes, it would've been nice to have cones to put the chickens down into like the processors have, I could see now that that would calm them and keep them from flapping around, but we didn't have them and we were doing our best without them and that was that.
Richard caught the second rooster, the "trouble maker" and again I tied its legs and then followed them both to the woods, standing a little bit closer this time. And this time Richard was more deft and sure of himself.
"It's like they're going to sleep," he assured me having hit an artery cleanly. I could see the raspberry color of its blood syrup the snow. We prepared the third and I walked right up to the tree to watch and Richard explained what he was doing as he did it. And then we waited. 5, 10 minutes went by. They would flap a bit, but slowly life ebbed away. Strange, sad, new.
Next came the plucking. The large enamel pot of boiling water was precariously situated on a tiny hot plate on the garage floor. Richard had read on line that one was to dip the chicken into "just below boiling" water for 45 seconds - I think there was an exact temperature, but we didn't have a thermometer. The immersion would loosen the feathers and make plucking exceedingly easier. The birds had been beheaded by now, most all the blood drained into the snow by the trees. Richard hadn't been looking forward to this step of the game at all and after dipping the bird, he sat down with great consternation on his face, but with the first gentle tug, all this changed. The feathers came out with incredible ease. Amazing! Richard looked up with an open mouth and wonder in his eyes, as if he'd just seen a baby being born. Oh how gorgeous the feathers were, their patterns, the layering, the natural design. What an incredible creation. The smell certainly wasn't pleasant, like a wet winter coat, but the whole process was endlessly fascinating.
And I had to do it myself. I grabbed the next chicken and headed for the hot pot.
"Don't keep it dunked as long this time. It was too hot before and some of the skin started to come off," Richard advised and as he counted out the time he coached me "Okay, now swoosh him around, right, up and down, up and down, good. Now sideways, back and forth. Really get the water all through the feathers ..."
Oh, I almost forgot. After Richard plucked his bird, he dressed it as well. Would that be the term? "Dressed?" Gutted. He'd cleaned plenty of fish in his day, but never a chicken.
'I saw someone do it once and they were able to bring it all out in one tug, almost as if it was in its own sac,' I offered and we walked each other through step-by-step, almost as if we were on a tv cooking show.
'Could we have an overhead shot of this, Frank'
And then after I had the experience of plucking my bird, I too had the experience of gutting and cleaning it. And every step of the way - I don't know how to describe it otherwise - there was such a respect for and honoring of its life. Knowing this bird was going to give us sustenance and nourishment and that our bodies through ingesting it would transform their bodies into energy and calories and life. The whole cycle of life, being part of it in a new way, was so potent and vivid and clear.
We put the newly dressed chickens into a bucket of cold water for a while, then, after cleaning up the garage a bit, we dripped them dry, wrapped them in plastic bags and put them in the freezer.
"This was something major today," Richard said. "Probably the biggest thing we've done together since we moved here."
I think he's right.
Monday, January 24, 2011
39 below zero
That's what the thermometer out the back kitchen window says. 39 below. That's Alaska cold. It's hard to get one's mind around the depth of the frigidness. Pretty hard to have an argument about global warming on a day like this. I'm really glad Glenn Beck had to cancel his stay, so we don't have to get into one of those "See? Al Gore's an idiot and don't give me science" discussions over dinner. It just ruins a visit. I mean, he's an energetic, emotional, ADD kind of guy; he can be likeable. And we'd bought all the materials he likes to use to make his charts, lots of sharpies and crayons and paste. And there's a big pile of old magazines in the corner he loves to tear through for pictures like Edward Scissorhands. It makes him happy. BUT him not being here, well ... things work out for the best. And he always brings tea for a host gift. It was cute the first time, but it gets old quick.
Have I told you yet that it's COLD?!! Richard told me "the moment you step outside you'll feel it" and I did, but it was subtler than I expected, not a grip, but a slow insidious icing from within. I walked past Richard's shuddering car on my way up to check the geese. He was idling it, trying to warm it up for a trip to the post office, but it groaned and hacked in pain - too much smoking from the looks of the intermittent puffs coming out of its exhaust pipes - and I could see the glow from its Check Engine light as I passed. Poor baby. I had some old lettuce and cabbage leaves for the geese, hoping it wouldn't harden to ice on my way. They weren't calling out like they usually do and as I got closer I could see a thin layer of ice over their coats from their dunks into the water bucket. It was hard to reconcile the chatline assurances that they would be fine, they're suited for this weather. And they did perk up with a bit of elan when I offered the grub. Shmuel's bites seemed as hardy as ever, their arguing with one another seemed as lively as ever. We'd been discussing bringing them into the garage for the night, preparing a makeshift sanctuary to give them a little break. This cold must burn up a lot of calories. But again, we're assured that their feathers keep them warm as toast points, and their feet are wrapped with tough coverings that help prevents their body heat from escaping. When a foot happens to get a little chilled, they balance on one while treating the other to a warm wrap of wing feathers. They're incredible.
I'm in the midst of a cleanse. It's something I embark on once or twice a year to detoxify my body, give it a nutritional boost, and, as an added perk, shave off a few of those pesky holiday pounds. But cleansing isn't that conducive to keeping warm in the midst of a cold snap. Even here in the kitchen I know when I've wandered to far away from the warmth of the wood stove. That sound you hear is the clack of my teeth chattering. But all's well. The carol "In the bleak midwinter" comes to mind. But I look outside to the brilliantly bright shine on the snow. The sky is this soft cerrulean, laid back, relaxed, arms behind its head, admiring the skiiers and snowmobilers that have the will to brave the chill somewhere down below. And the Eye on the Sky forecast from (is this correct?) the Fairbanks Museum??!! Oh, not Alaska. Anyway, the report on VPR says it'll get to zero today, so things are looking up. It's all just as it should be and I intend on enjoying it. The cats seem to be. They're all curled up and nestled near the fire, visions of sugarplums or fields of catnip dancing around in their little furry heads, teaching me once more the beauty in naps. Books beckon, it's the perfect day for reading. And there are plenty of projects to either embark on or continue the voyage. A little bit of poetry will be fun, writing AND reading. Possibly today would be the perfect time to pull out all the accourtrement we'd purchased for Glenn and use it instead to lay out a garden plan for Spring. Yes. And order seeds. There we go. Hope springs eternal.
Oh, before I forget, Richard has two hunks of eggs incubating, in two separate incubators. A couple dozen. Last night I had to ask him 'Am I crazy or didn't you tell me you weren't going to start hatching until March?" I hadn't been crazy, he had said that, and his rather flimsy defense was "I couldn't help myself." Hmmm? A bit compulsive and I would've appreciated a discussion about this before it happened, but there you are. Fodder for a future blog.
Stay warm, dream big.
Have I told you yet that it's COLD?!! Richard told me "the moment you step outside you'll feel it" and I did, but it was subtler than I expected, not a grip, but a slow insidious icing from within. I walked past Richard's shuddering car on my way up to check the geese. He was idling it, trying to warm it up for a trip to the post office, but it groaned and hacked in pain - too much smoking from the looks of the intermittent puffs coming out of its exhaust pipes - and I could see the glow from its Check Engine light as I passed. Poor baby. I had some old lettuce and cabbage leaves for the geese, hoping it wouldn't harden to ice on my way. They weren't calling out like they usually do and as I got closer I could see a thin layer of ice over their coats from their dunks into the water bucket. It was hard to reconcile the chatline assurances that they would be fine, they're suited for this weather. And they did perk up with a bit of elan when I offered the grub. Shmuel's bites seemed as hardy as ever, their arguing with one another seemed as lively as ever. We'd been discussing bringing them into the garage for the night, preparing a makeshift sanctuary to give them a little break. This cold must burn up a lot of calories. But again, we're assured that their feathers keep them warm as toast points, and their feet are wrapped with tough coverings that help prevents their body heat from escaping. When a foot happens to get a little chilled, they balance on one while treating the other to a warm wrap of wing feathers. They're incredible.
I'm in the midst of a cleanse. It's something I embark on once or twice a year to detoxify my body, give it a nutritional boost, and, as an added perk, shave off a few of those pesky holiday pounds. But cleansing isn't that conducive to keeping warm in the midst of a cold snap. Even here in the kitchen I know when I've wandered to far away from the warmth of the wood stove. That sound you hear is the clack of my teeth chattering. But all's well. The carol "In the bleak midwinter" comes to mind. But I look outside to the brilliantly bright shine on the snow. The sky is this soft cerrulean, laid back, relaxed, arms behind its head, admiring the skiiers and snowmobilers that have the will to brave the chill somewhere down below. And the Eye on the Sky forecast from (is this correct?) the Fairbanks Museum??!! Oh, not Alaska. Anyway, the report on VPR says it'll get to zero today, so things are looking up. It's all just as it should be and I intend on enjoying it. The cats seem to be. They're all curled up and nestled near the fire, visions of sugarplums or fields of catnip dancing around in their little furry heads, teaching me once more the beauty in naps. Books beckon, it's the perfect day for reading. And there are plenty of projects to either embark on or continue the voyage. A little bit of poetry will be fun, writing AND reading. Possibly today would be the perfect time to pull out all the accourtrement we'd purchased for Glenn and use it instead to lay out a garden plan for Spring. Yes. And order seeds. There we go. Hope springs eternal.
Oh, before I forget, Richard has two hunks of eggs incubating, in two separate incubators. A couple dozen. Last night I had to ask him 'Am I crazy or didn't you tell me you weren't going to start hatching until March?" I hadn't been crazy, he had said that, and his rather flimsy defense was "I couldn't help myself." Hmmm? A bit compulsive and I would've appreciated a discussion about this before it happened, but there you are. Fodder for a future blog.
Stay warm, dream big.
Saturday, January 22, 2011
Up early on a chilly morning
Moonbright outside, day turned inside out. The trees are trying to scare one another with long Nosferatu branch shadows clawing up the hill. It's shivery cold, 10 below at least and getting lower this weekend, possibly down to 30 below. We'll have to pay special care to our dear geese and turkeys. Conditions may lead us to make our garage a manger for a night or two. They're such sweet birds. I can usually con a honk or two from the geese when I drive up, even after dark, but last night, nothing. I had to go up with Richard to make sure they were alright. We took some lettuce and dried corn and shown our flashlights on the ground so they could see. They're pretty much nightblinded. After a momentary spook when we walked into their home, they relaxed into a nice chomp.
Just back from a week in the stir and bustle of the city where I was surrounded by purposeful people taking purposeful strides toward some thing or some place. It's by turns intimidating and exhilarating, the city, and always takes me a day to get back into the dance step of its pace. And when I do, oh! what a magnificent city it is. Like coming back to an old friend. Walking down its streets in the morning, a cup of hot coffee in my hands, a nice stroll, finding my own rhythm within its lead, I feel this warm intimacy with it, a partnership, as if we're visiting with one another, catching up, wishing each other well.
Now back to the country everything feels a bit small by comparison. The desk I'm sitting at feels as if it shrunk while I was gone, too small for my thoughts and feelings and ideas. The trudge of the second hand of the clock on my desk shelf sounds positively Sysiphean. But I know this is reverse acclimating. Don't be too quick to judge, Daniel. This too shall pass. Oh my gosh, it's light outside! The tree branches have lost all their spook. They're very yoga pose at the moment, having their own version of salute to the sun. Town and country, we've set up a rich balancing act. A marvelous juggle and challenge to take the richness in both and blend it into a new recipe. What an opportunity. A manifest destiny.
And with the rising of the sun there arises new ideas: What new thing can I create today? What new project can I dream into being? What fun and play can I produce? How can I plant a little laughter about? How can I show life how much I appreciate it?
I can hear Richard laughing downstairs in the kitchen. He's streaming "Gosford Park" on his laptop and it sounds as if he's lapping. A fine contented sound. My husband. Nice to begin a day with a smile and a laugh.
And coffee and a warm wood fire aren't so bad either.
Keep warm yourself today and may wonderful new ideas come to LIFE for you as well!
Just back from a week in the stir and bustle of the city where I was surrounded by purposeful people taking purposeful strides toward some thing or some place. It's by turns intimidating and exhilarating, the city, and always takes me a day to get back into the dance step of its pace. And when I do, oh! what a magnificent city it is. Like coming back to an old friend. Walking down its streets in the morning, a cup of hot coffee in my hands, a nice stroll, finding my own rhythm within its lead, I feel this warm intimacy with it, a partnership, as if we're visiting with one another, catching up, wishing each other well.
Now back to the country everything feels a bit small by comparison. The desk I'm sitting at feels as if it shrunk while I was gone, too small for my thoughts and feelings and ideas. The trudge of the second hand of the clock on my desk shelf sounds positively Sysiphean. But I know this is reverse acclimating. Don't be too quick to judge, Daniel. This too shall pass. Oh my gosh, it's light outside! The tree branches have lost all their spook. They're very yoga pose at the moment, having their own version of salute to the sun. Town and country, we've set up a rich balancing act. A marvelous juggle and challenge to take the richness in both and blend it into a new recipe. What an opportunity. A manifest destiny.
And with the rising of the sun there arises new ideas: What new thing can I create today? What new project can I dream into being? What fun and play can I produce? How can I plant a little laughter about? How can I show life how much I appreciate it?
I can hear Richard laughing downstairs in the kitchen. He's streaming "Gosford Park" on his laptop and it sounds as if he's lapping. A fine contented sound. My husband. Nice to begin a day with a smile and a laugh.
And coffee and a warm wood fire aren't so bad either.
Keep warm yourself today and may wonderful new ideas come to LIFE for you as well!
Monday, January 10, 2011
I just loved on Shmuel
I just gave my gander a neck twirl around and pick up, holding his strong white wings close to his side. The girls gave a squawk of protest, but he made nary a peep or bray. I hadn't used this disciplinary measure for awhile, hadn't needed to. But today, I was getting a little bit tired of him taking a good, healthy chomp into my hand when I was offering he and his harum some nice romaine lettuce, something I do most every morning. And he knows better, he can gauge where the lettuce ends and my skin begins. This was calculated today, intentional, premeditated. So I lifted him a few feet off the earth and held him there. Truth be told, it wasn't all disciplinary; I'd been wanting to pick him up and pet him. But he's usually so tough and proud and blustery, with a flutter rush of his tail feathers and a "keep your distance" dip to his long neck, a glare of his Moby Dick eyes warning you back. "Have you seen the great white goose?!" That was one advantage to when he was recovering from his coyote neck bite late summer, I could be as close to him as I wished for he didn't have the strength to put up a fuss. He was vulnerable and tender, his bites were like litte moth nibbles. Oh he was so defenseless and weak. I never thought I'd see his tough side again and, yes, I longed for it back. And now ... oh whatever. So I held him and stroked his neck and thought 'You know, many times when I've done this, he's hit the ground, and turned around and come after me, wings whipping the air for a good punch, beak out for a bite of me. What's going to happen now?' And you know what happened when I let him down? Nothin'. He walked over to the girls who asked if he was alright, if he'd been hurt in any way. "just my pride, just my pride" I think I heard him say. But I loved on him, I pet him, that's all. He didn't know what to do with that. What a great bird he is.
On the other bird front, Richard is moving his 5 turkeys over to a small section of the upstairs level of our neighbor Royce's barn. Not enough room at the chicken inn. Those turkeys are growing much larger, much quicker than ever imagined and though we thought the chickens and turkeys would be able to make it through the winter co-habitating, it ain't working out that way. The turkey tail feathers alone are cococking the chickens whenever the turkeys turn around. And there are mites - Richard dusted all the birds today with a white powder that suffocates the mites and kills them, but one poor turkey has been particularly droopy of late and we've had to quarantine her in her own crate and give her special treatment - some cayenne pepper in her food, a little tetracyline in her water. She's got something and we're hoping we can nip it in the bud. Richard is so good with his birds. He's learning so much all the time, getting great advice from the various bird sites on line. Very helpful.
He loves it, he loves them, and it shows. Great to see.
It's a stunningly beautiful, frigid day here. When it snows, which it's been doing off and on today, you feel as if you're in a snow globe in the middle of a gentle, light, continuous powdered sugar dusting. The fire in the kitchen wood stove hypnotizes you with warmth. So cozy. A perfect January day of puttering around, getting good work done, writing, musing, catching up, making plans ... and hugging geese.
On the other bird front, Richard is moving his 5 turkeys over to a small section of the upstairs level of our neighbor Royce's barn. Not enough room at the chicken inn. Those turkeys are growing much larger, much quicker than ever imagined and though we thought the chickens and turkeys would be able to make it through the winter co-habitating, it ain't working out that way. The turkey tail feathers alone are cococking the chickens whenever the turkeys turn around. And there are mites - Richard dusted all the birds today with a white powder that suffocates the mites and kills them, but one poor turkey has been particularly droopy of late and we've had to quarantine her in her own crate and give her special treatment - some cayenne pepper in her food, a little tetracyline in her water. She's got something and we're hoping we can nip it in the bud. Richard is so good with his birds. He's learning so much all the time, getting great advice from the various bird sites on line. Very helpful.
He loves it, he loves them, and it shows. Great to see.
It's a stunningly beautiful, frigid day here. When it snows, which it's been doing off and on today, you feel as if you're in a snow globe in the middle of a gentle, light, continuous powdered sugar dusting. The fire in the kitchen wood stove hypnotizes you with warmth. So cozy. A perfect January day of puttering around, getting good work done, writing, musing, catching up, making plans ... and hugging geese.
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