Hibernation

I am in full-on hibernation mode.
The goats have been dry for several weeks, so chores are a minimum. I’m back in the house by 4:30.
What a gift winter days and evenings are!
I’ve taken up knitting again, and perhaps just maybe I’ll finish that sweater I started for Brad 17 years ago (that would be BG, Before Goats). Mostly I’m knitting in an attempt to keep myself awake after supper. Otherwise, I’d be asleep on the couch by 7 p.m.
On snowy days, and unlike last winter, we’ve had at least one a week since Christmas, we watch movies. The first blizzard, we watched 9 movies in three days. We’ve toned that down a bit to a couple a week.
I’m working my way through my pile of books that has been accumulating for a couple of years. I’ve read three since Christmas, not counting reviewing my bread books.
I’m baking bread again, furiously trying out new recipes to fit into the busy summer schedule. Our neighbor who plows our driveway is the happy recipient of much of this effort!
I’ve cancelled several of my winter cheesemaking classes, so Fix-It Guy can get some much needed repairs and renovations done in the dairy. It’s been too cold this week to get much done, which means more couch time!

ll be lucky if I can fit out the door, come kidding season. I better start my spring training... Kidding should start in six short weeks and then winter hibernation will be over.

Empty-nesting

Whoa, empty nest again. Another year of apprentices come and gone. I know I make ironic jokes about them every year, but really. I enjoy each and every one of them and miss them fiercely when they go. I guess it’s been part of the higher purpose of my life. I have knowledge and skills to share with more than the one child I was gifted, so I take on apprentices like foster children in the hope that some will follow in my footsteps and learn from my mistakes.
It makes me terribly sad when I don’t hear from them, like lost children, I wonder where they have gone and what they are doing now. Why don’t they write? We did our best.... and It makes me extremely proud when I see the strong young farmers and artisans and advocates and activists they grow into. And the both of us love it when they flock back for a visit. Flung the world over: Alaska, Washington, California, Vermont. Or right in my back yard: North Haven, Thorndike and Lewiston. They are making cheese, or raising goats, or sharing the farm life love, or raising awareness of local food systems.
My kids.

Local, continued

Finally, our supplier has found domestic garlic for us! Not local, not yet, but at least it’s not from China. How crazy is that, imported garlic from China?
This season, we have learned how to make rennet! Most people won’t really want to hear where it comes from: a kid’s stomach. Of course it makes a lot of sense that the very enzymes needed to separate curd from whey are found in the stomach. It also makes sense to use surplus kids (mostly the males who will NEVER be milkers on the farm) to harvest the stomachs to make rennet, and then roast the meat in celebration. Our friends John and Mary at Little Falls Farm, who taught the workshop where we learned this new skill, report that they are able to harvest exactly the amount of rennet they need for the year from the surplus kids they process from their herd. It just makes sense.
Meanwhile, we continue to experiment with vegetable-derived rennets. Unfortunately for us in Maine, the plants most used for rennet can’t grow here, but we can try. We’ve got some cardoon growing in the garden, and we will report back on how it works. All our experiments last summer with nettles were grand failures. Fig plants are also used, but also don’t grow here.
We are also experimenting with the most local of cheese packaging: beeswax. How cool is that? Renewable, recyclable, reusable, all natural, smells really good, and very subtlely flavors the cheese. And beautiful!
Now, we’re going to experiment with using kefir as a culture, so we would truly have a locally produced cheese from start to finish.
In love with local.

A Typical Day

Here’s what life is like right now:
Sleep is restless after about 3 a.m., easily wakened by snoring, or cats scratching, or wind blowing. I start trying to figure out what needs to be done this day, and all chance of sleep is gone.
Take the dog out, feed her and the cats, wash last night’s dishes, check email, and if there is time, pay some bills online. Out to the barn by 5:30 to start milking. Milking right now takes two hours, with all girls milking at their peak. After milking, there is cleanup, kids to feed, hay to bring down to the barn, floor to sweep. Fill the pasteurizers, and start the cycle. Brief Jessie when she arrives, and give her the list for the day.
If I’m lucky, I have time for breakfast and something to take for lunch. Usually, I’m not so lucky, and I have to stop and get something on the way to work. Put in my 5-1/2 hours at my part-time job, then head home again.
I get home early enough to do an hour or so of cheese work or barn work before I start milking at 5 p.m. If all the girls behave, I’m done milking and feeding babies by 8 p.m. Back to the house for supper, and I’m happy to eat anything Brad cooks for me, because I sure don’t have time or energy to cook. Fall asleep on the couch by 9.
Usually, I’m not so lucky. If the phone rings, even once, then the schedule is out the window. If someone stops by, even for the briefest of unexpected visits, that hour is lost forever, and usually comes out of sleep time. Everbody wants a piece of me these days: Dad needs his internet connection checked, the Kid needs some advice on the phone, a local photographer wants to come take pictures, the land trust wants a tour, workshops to run. Lord help me if I have an appointment somewhere. Oh yeah, and cheese to make.
The apprentices can’t get here fast enough.

Edible Irony

I am in the food business. The healthy, local, alternative food business. And my dirty little secret is that I eat at the gas station at least a couple of times a week. Some days, in my multitasking life, the only way to get something to eat is when I stop for gas. I have to get the gas. I can skip meals.
Gas station food is handy. As in, you only need one hand, and no utensils, to eat it. The coffee is always hot, other drinks are always cold. There is almost always pizza. And paper napkins.
When we visited Italy, all those years ago, our host friends delighted in showing us the high quality of food available at the gas stations in that country, and I've never forgotten it. Seems like it would be a nice niche for an ambitious sort of person, to create really healthy gas station food. Somewhere.

Apologies

Apologies to my readers, if in fact I have any, for not posting for so long. Suffice to say that it has been one hellacious winter, and I haven't wanted to write about any of it.
However, we seem to be enjoying an early and warm spring, so things are starting to look up.
I will try to find something hopeful or funny to write about soon.

Still pissed off

We spent a very fun couple of days at the Common Ground Fair this year. We always have fun, eat lots of food, and find some new source of inspiration to carry us through the winter months. We went to Kendra Michaud’s wood-fired bread baking workshop and picked up a few more pointers for our new oven. Listened to Mark Guzzi’s keynote, as well as his garlic lecture. Checked in with Cheryl Wixson about root-cellaring.

Ten years ago, we used to be able to sell our cheese in the farmers’ market area of the fair. We sold a lot of cheese, had a lot of fun, and many new people discovered us that way. But that was back in the day when you didn’t need to be certified organic in order to sell there. In 2000, the fair organizers began requiring anyone selling any kind of food to be certified. For years afterward, there was no cheese, local chicken or several other foods, stilll grown locally and sustainably, but not certified organic. It pissed me off then and it still pisses me off, that it’s OK to truck in certified organic food from anywhere in the world (coffee is at the fair this year!!!) but our farm, a mere 25 miles from the fairground, is excluded because we are not certified.
This leads to MUCH customer confusion! They don’t understand why I am not at the fair. They don’t understand why we’re not organic --many people assume that we are since we sell at a farmers’ market. Not so!
Here are our reasons for not being certified organic, although we manage our farm organically:
We don’t have the land base to establish rotational pasture. We only have 6 acres, enough for goats, but not for pasture. Goats don’t really graze so much as browse anyway, and they are very happy browsing in our second-growth woods.
We buy our hay locally, from a farm six miles away. This makes much more sense to me than trucking in organic hay from Canada or wherever. Our hay farmer doesn’t use pesticides, he simply isn’t certified, either. We haven’t got storage for a lot of hay, so he stores it for us. Works well that way.
We can’t afford organic grain. We don’t feel what is available is dependable or of high quality.
We don’t use antibiotics, but reserve the right to do so in order to save the life of one of our animals. Wouldn’t you?
We never use artificial hormones. Why on earth would we? Our goats are happy, and give us all the milk we need.
I’m not sure I really want to sell cheese at the fair, truth be told. I have much more fun just going to the fair, and not working. But I am tired of explaining it to people, and tired of having to go incognito, because if customers see me there, they think the cheese is not far behind.

Gone again

Singing the praises of my 2009 apprentices! Seems like they, like the lost summer, only just arrived, and now it’s time to go. Somewhere toward the end of August, that faraway look creeps into their eyes, and while we are focusing on the rootcellar, woodshed, and freezer, they are checking on airline tickets or winter rents.
I can’t get through the summer without them, and it will be tough this winter when they’ve departed. They are like children that I’ve raised and am sending out into the world. Hope they come back to visit. Hope they send postcards!

The Search for Local

We just got word that our olive oil is in. To back up a little in the story, we’ve been peeling back the layers of our cheese production, and attempting to source everything locally. The two especially difficult products to source have been olive oil (no olives in Maine, and not a lot of domestic olive oil) and interestingly, peeled garlic.
A happy meeting at a cheese class last year resulted in the discovery that one of our local caterers, a long-time friend and supporter of AC, Swan’s Way, imports her olive oil from friends in Italy. A couple of emails later, and we were in business! This year we doubled our order, and are eagerly anticipating our delivery of olive oil with a Story!
Stacey writes: “Lily Zanetti has been a friend of my family for 45 years. She began bottling her own olive oil about 17 years ago, made from the olives of 100 year-old trees on her property. Originally, she had the oil, which is processed in Lucignano, made for the enjoyment of her family and friends. But as she started getting more requests for the extra virgin olive oil, her oldest son Alex began to increase production and bottle the oil under the Villa la Piertraia label (Zanetti's family villa in Lucignano). The villas and olive groves are situated on Zanetti's family estate, just outside the 12th century town of Lucignano. Best known for its churches, art and Thursday food market, Lucignano is home to just 2,000 people. Located in Valdichiana region of Tuscany, Lucignano is nestled in rolling hills and is surrounded by vineyards and olive groves. Less than a half hour from the better-known towns of Siena, Arezzo and Montepulciano,  Lucignano is a  medieval walled city laid out in concentric rings radiating from the town square -- the only town in Italy laid out in such a way.
I get a shipment once a year. I use the cans, with a milder but still fruity flavor, for all our basic cooking and some of our dressings. I use her bottled oil , which has a stronger flavor, for the oil I serve on the tables and certain other dressings that like having the olive oil have a dominant presence. And I use the oil  pressed directly from the olives in her front yard for the final finish on certain dishes. It has an intense fruit flavor with a strong bitter olive finish.
I have been in Lucignano and watched the olive harvest and the pressing. The bottled oils are still pressed under blankets and not with machines. After the pressing we went back to the contadina’s house (their resident farmer) and had homemade bread toasted in the fire, rubbed with garlic and drizzled with the just-pressed olive oil.”

Garlic remains another challenge. Apparently all the food service peeled garlic in this country is from China! How odd is that? Even the bulk garlic at the grocery store (if I had time to peel it) is from China. It comes with quaint brand names, like Hometown Garlic, but still...! This time of year, we go through probably 10 pounds of peeled garlic a week -- not sure what that translates into for unpeeled garlic, but it’s a boatload. Sure would like to find local garlic. Hate the idea of lead in my cheese..

The Virgin Goat of Goatalupe

One of the reasons that I raise Alpines is that they come in a variety of colors and patterns. I would get so tired of looking at goats that all look the same. Every year I hope to get spots and stripes and bands, and am disappointed when I don’t. Any goat that is born on my farm with spots or splashes has a guaranteed place on my farm. Forever. Even if she is fat and non-productive. I yearn for the goat with the Mickey Mouse pattern on her side. I pray for a Virgin Mary image. A map of Maine would do.
I am constantly tempted to add Nubians to my herd. Not so much for the butterfat, and certainly not for their hideous voices or frost-bite prone ears, but for the possibility of spots and frosting and new colors. I need to be able to look out the window and see a canvas of patterns in the herd.
Last year we added a Nubian buck. Of course we claimed it was for the butterfat his daughters would add to the milk. Secretly, though, I was hoping for those spots. His kids turned out to be oh, so cute, and oh, so marketable. Of course, those kids went first, and we’re left with monochromia (if that’s a word). So, this year, we’re adding a Saanen buck. Perhaps next season we’ll have little white babies running around. With spots or an image of Jesus.
But our farm is still not open to the public, so the faithful need not stop by to check.

The Year of Little Pea

I have no idea why we named her Little Pea, other than she was only 4 lb. when she was born. Smaller than a peapod or a peanut? She was so little, I bought a special bottle for her. And of course she was spoiled rotten. She became our farmers’ market mascot, riding in the truck on Claire’s lap. Customers adored her.

We lost Little Pea last week -- the saddest loss this year. She struggled so hard to deliver her first kid, and we tried hard to help her. We took her to the vet, a caesarian was indicated, against my better judgement, and she didn't make it. She never got very big, and her kid was 10 -1/2 lb. Way too big for that little body to deliver. I’m so sad. All the yearlings miss her. Another disturbance in the force.

Welcome Spring!

Kidding is stretching out longer this year than it has in previous years. We’re into week three now, with 47 kids on the ground, and at least eight more does to kid. Spring itself seems to be stretching itself out as well, giving us a tiny gift each day. This morning, I heard the first peeper! On Sunday, the bees were swarming in the newly blooming crocus, and the chives are peeking out. The snow has receded gradually over the last week, with only isolated pockets left here and there. The snow and hay pack which has been burying the hay feeders has shrunk enough that the goats can stand and eat their hay again, instead of kneel. And the best part so far this spring is welcoming apprentices Jamien and Jeff. Welcome all!

March forth, Spring ahead, Sucker punch

To paraphrase T. S. Elliot, March is the cruelest month. Just when the sure signs of spring are starting to appear -- sap buckets, frost heaves, skunks -- the snow keeps on coming, and they take away an hour of daylight in the morning. Don’t they know that the darkness is the worst part of a northern winter? Our house is dark, I get up in the dark to do chores, I spend the day at work in a windowless room, I come home at dusk. Day after day is gray and overcast. Everything outside is monochrome and colorless.
This is one reason why I go a little nuts with the Christmas lights, hanging them everywhere, and leaving them up until Easter (as long as Easter is in April, that is). At least I can take a small bit of cheer from the colorful dots of lights everywhere. Until the snow is so deep, that all the outside lights are buried. And they are making them so cheaply that they do not last more than a season, and after three months of being on continuously, mine are all dying out. So, not only do I still have to get up in the dark, but my lights are going out.
I remember flying kites in March, in bare fields. I remember walking the goats with their spring kids in March in bare fields. I remember St. Patrick’s Day when there was green grass and daffodils. What is happening here? Winter lasts at least a month longer than it did when I was growing up, and I live less than 200 miles from there, and closer to the ocean. It’s so difficult to stay optimistic, when March just sucker punches again.

Where's Mom when I need her?

Yesterday, in the height of the storm, there was a flock of little chirping birds in the crab apple tree, eating dried fruit. At first I thought they were robins, because I saw a flash of orange. But they were smaller, and had a tuft on their head, small beaks, and a little yellow stripe on the end of their tail. I looked up every bird I could think of, but nothing matched. Not titmouse, siskin, grosbeak, waxwing, towhee, nuthatch, redpoll, bunting or finch. This is when I miss my mother. She would have known.

Our Staycation

File this one under “Faves”.
We are supposed to be in France right now, touring cheese plants, and drinking wine and Calvados, visiting Mont St. Michel. But thanks to the economy, our trip was postponed. And thanks to the economy, a backup vacation to an undiclosed location was not affordable.
So we went to Portland overnight.
And had a blast just wandering around. We toured a few new places we hadn’t visited before: Allagash Brewery (http://www.allagash.com), Maine Mead Works (http://www.mainemeadworks.com/) and Maine Distilleries, home of Cold River Vodka (http://www.coldrivervodka.com), sampling happily as we went. The enthusiasm of these new young entrepreneurs is simply contagious. And they are all producing world-class products. I am looking forward to the Maine Cheese Guild working more closely with the Maine Winery Guild and creating some interesting partnering opportunities. (http://www.mainewinetrail.com/)
We visited with our new friends Samantha and Don at Rabelais Books (http://rabelaisbooks.com/), wishing we lived closer to Portland so we could take advantage of their book groups and some of the Slow Food events that take place there. We bought some books and new kitchen gadgets. We dined at Hugo’s, Duck Fat and the Good Egg Cafe. Walked the Old Port. Bought more wine.
We even enjoyed watching Jamie Oliver and Nigella Lawson on cable in our hotel room. (no cable here in Appleton)
We’re still riding that crest of deliciousness and delight today, and hope it will get us through this next storm. We’ve got some new recipes and great wine to keep us warm.

I'm worried about the Robins

I love seeing the Robins hanging around this winter, but what are they eating? Clearly, there are no worms available right now. The ones I’ve seen have been roosting in the crab apple, so I suspect that’s one thing they eat. There was also a bumper crop of pinecones this year, so maybe they can eat those. I don’t dare start feeding them, because if I forget to -- and I will -- it’s the kiss of death for them. But it’s so wrong to see the messengers of spring in a snow-covered tree! I can only have faith that they know things we don’t, and not only are they finding food, but spring is just around the corner.

Genny is deliriously happy

After Zelda went, we were so worried about Genny being cold and lonely in the barn that we retired her inside, for the winter at least. She is living in the solarium, rarely leaving her basket. She gets up to eat and drink, then goes back to bake in spots of sunshine. She purrs non-stop. If she wants to go back out when it’s spring again, she may, but it’s clear she is stone deaf now, and we worry about critters sneaking up on her. She’s earned her retirement. She's older than my oldest goat -- 17 at least. Brad is even hand feeding her canned cat food, without her even asking.

I'm so tired, my mind is on the blink

(With apologies to John Lennon)
I’m so tired of dragging around the 50-lb coveralls to do outside chores.
I’m so tired of frozen buckets of water to thaw each day, frozen pipes in the dairy to thaw each day.
I’m so tired of frozen fingers because I can’t get out my leatherman with gloves on, or open the gate with gloves on, or hook up the hose with gloves on, or bail ice out of the water tank with gloves on.
I’m so tired of seeing my breath inside the house.
I’m so tired of being cold at work because the heat doesn’t work right.
I’m so tired of carrying firewood with hands that can’t grip anymore, and arms that can’t reach or lift, and a back that can’t carry anymore.
I’m so tired of driving everywhere at 25 mph because the roads are so dreadful.
I’m so tired of all the extra effort of just getting through a winter day.

Please don’t let the groundhog see his shadow.

A disturbance in the force

Zelda is gone. She had the best life a barn cat could have: born in the barn, loved by a 6-year-old as a kitten, loved by many adults as a cat, food every day, hot water in the winter, hot snacks (as many as she could catch and eat), a warm bed to sleep in, a job, and a peaceful end after 14 years. She was about as useful an animal as you could ask for. She will receive the highest honors awarded at the farm: a place in the memorial garden, a shrub planted for her, and Brad will play the pipes.
She is survived by her mother Genny and her brother Maynard.

Thanksgiving Diary

Usually, I have an entire week to cook and clean for Thanksgiving. This year, I seemed to have filled the empty days with other commmitments, and the weather gods did the rest...
Friday before: went to farmers’ market and did deliveries. Should have cooked and cleaned.
Saturday before: went to farmers’ market. It snowed. Terrifying drive home. Should have stayed home and cooked and cleaned.
Sunday before: interviewed possible apprentices.
Monday before: taught a cheesemaking class in Orono. Gone all day.
Tuesday before: Finally get started cleaning. Big storm moves in, power goes out, all cooking and cleaning comes to a halt.
Weds before: Power still out. Go to farmers’ market. Pick up turkey on the way home. Can’t cook or clean. Emergency fence repair. Had to borrow neighbor’s generator to milk the goats and pump water. Decision is made to relocate Thanksgiving to my sister’s house in Camden, where they do have power. Drive the turkey and the stuffing to Camden in the evening.
Thanksgiving Day: Had a dinner that couldn’t be beat, but I didn’t get to host it. Here’s what I couldn’t do this year: my cranberry sauce (bought some local instead), Sal’s special holiday squash (made plain instead), any pies (bought a local one instead).
How the mighty have fallen. I give thanks for sisters.