Waiting for Warm

         Winter sucks. As a child growing up in a suburb outside of Denver, CO I became accustomed to cold and snow; 4 years of living on the Eastern Plains 40-ish miles southeast of D-town I learned just how cold winter wind can be. Blowing snow that scratched your face until it bled, more akin to dermabrasion than precipitation, seeping though every crack of the house and every seam in our clothes. It got pretty damn cold, sure, but nothing compared to what Old Man Winter has unleashed on us this year.

          The cold is very different here in southwest Michigan. The humidity adds a bone-chilling depth to the cold that makes it so hard to shake off. Our move from Colorado to Michigan actually took place in December 2011 and began at about 7pm MST, and at one point our daughter Ivy's hair actually froze to the inside of the car's window as she slept. My toes got so cold my knees ached, and the possibility of breaking down in rural Nebraska and being stranded in that cold was a huge worry. When we finally made it and tucked kids into beds the next night, not even a hot shower could chase the chill away. The rest of the winter was cold, dotted with blizzards and resulting school snow days here and there. The winter of 2012 had its moments but really wasn't bad. This year, not so much. That miserable drive in December '11 was a weekend in Cancun compared to this winter.

          The coldest temp I've seen so far during this 'polar vortex' was -37*F. The towels and old baby blankets that we rolled and used as extra draft protection all froze to the windows- inside the house. Our water pump in the barn became so brittle the metal handle snapped, and most of our buckets cracked as the water in them froze and expanded. The kids layered on socks and multiple sweatshirts and drew in the frost on the windows even as the furnace churned away. We kept the thermostat at 66* to conserve our fast-dwindling propane, adding more covers to the beds and wrapping blankets around the kids' shoulders. They looked like miniature hobos gathered around LEGOs instead of barrel fires. The snow continued to fall and the drifts continued to build, doors froze shut and our driveway remained impassible no matter how many times it was cleared. Our huge German Shepherd had to dig for several minutes in order to make himself a spot to crap without his butt in the snow while the barn cats tiptoed across the surface looking supremely annoyed. Mama Cat and Fearless made themselves a nice snug cat condo inside a loosely-tied bale of straw and were probably warmer than we were in our beds at night. 

           We burned through 20 bales of hay in a month and added fresh straw to the goat pens daily, furry circles with ears and horns curled up in pockets in the piled bedding. They slept in windrows and, for once, allowed the chickens to snuggle up too. Colonel Sanders the rooster will lose most of his impressive wattles to frostbite damage despite being moved into the barn. Baby Henry reluctantly wore his goat coat and sweaters, bounding around Pixie's kidding pen as the wind howled away through the barn's soffits. If force of will alone could raise the temperature it would feel like July around here by now.

         Winter sucks, this winter especially. But it's going to end. Every day the kids and I look at the forecast for the upcoming ten days and rejoice at any projected rise in the mercury. "It's almost over, Mom" they assure me when I worry aloud about our animals in the barn. When I declared open season on Punxsatawney Phil they jokingly ran for their boots, ready to go groundhog hunting. As rough as this winter has been, we are still so blessed. We haven't lost power at all (for once!) Our propane held out until the truck could get through to refill our tank. Thanks to our freezers, food storage and preference for cooking from scratch we didn't run out of anything all that vital. Aside from one white-knuckle 360degree spin-out on black ice we didn't get into any accidents. Despite multiple fake-outs (as always) none of our uber-pregnant mama goats delivered in the arctic temperatures. Although their cabin fever has to be worse even than ours, we haven't lost any animals to illness or freezing (knock on wood.) Our roofs have held and our old furnace has chugged on like a boss. We've been given a pretty good look at just where we need to concentrate our energy in preparing for future winters and which priorities need to jump straight to the top of the list (two words: WOOD STOVE.) 

      Brutal as winter has been (and continues to be) spring and summer really are just around the corner; and they make every second of this cold absolutely worth it. 

You just might be a homesteader/hobby farmer if:

*Strangers are constantly pointing out that you have either feathers, hay or straw in your hair (sometimes all three.) 

*You've had several cell phone cases partially consumed by goats ('defender series,' my ass!) 

*Your favorite apparel ensemble contains two or more items purchased at a 'farm store' (I.e. Tractor Supply Co., Big R, ect) or an Army-Navy Surplus website or store 

*People notice your forearms and ask if you play tennis; actually, those guns are from hand-milking and digging rocks out of your tomato patch. 

*You chuckle and feel superior when walking past the fridge full of eggs at the grocery store

*You wear muck boots more than you wear actual shoes

*Your poultry's pecking order is of genuine concern to you

*Your mood for the day has a direct correlation to whether the pump in the barn is frozen or not

*New visitors to your property during the spring and fall receive a 'you will probably  see and/or hear animal sex while here' disclaimer upon arriving

*You have to remind yourself to stop asking 'could I can that?' and start asking 'SHOULD I can that...'

* You choose winter coats based on how difficult it would be to remove placenta from the sleeves

*Your mail carrier knows to honk and wait for you when he/she delivers a package, because exiting their vehicle comes with the high probability of being mobbed by turkeys

*Friends no longer ask if you've 'seen that movie yet.' Because you haven't. 

*There are at least two scars on your body that were inflicted by fencing, and you can name the date, time, location and dosage of your last tetanus booster

*The perfect winter afternoon involves a hot beverage and knitting or crocheting lamb/kid sweaters or poring over the seed catalogs

*Your neighbors have a nickname for you (I.e the heirloom tomato people, the escaping sheep people, the loud cow people) and you take it as a compliment

*There's pretty much always some sort of poop on your shoes

*70% of the inventory at the local big-box 

grocery store is made up of things you have either made yourself, currently make or plan to make in the near future, or can't imagine actually paying money for

*The people in your life are sorted into two categories: those you would protect & feed in a post-apocalyptic wasteland scenario and those who would be eaten (or tripped in the path of the oncoming undead horde) first

*You can never have too many bungee cords and good scissors are worth their weight in gold

*Being almost out of bread and milk during a blizzard is not a big deal; being almost out of hay is a catastrophe

Merry Christmas, Mom

           It's December 24th. Time has marched on for the last 33 days and skidded to a stop here, on Christmas Eve. As a heathen, I observe Yuletide instead- beginning on Dec. 20th but including the requisite visit from Santa on Dec. 25th. It doesn't really matter what I celebrate though; it's Christmas Eve. Even though my mom isn't here anymore.

            My Mom celebrated Christmas like no other. Two trees, decked out in coordinating finery that would drop Martha Stewart's jaw. Lighted garlands, crystal, elaborate wreaths. Four-course gourmet dinners, all prepared in matching holiday top and earrings that would remain miraculously spotless throughout. Not because she was putting on any sort of front, but because she genuinely loved the holiday. She often joked that she'd make sure she 'kicked the bucket' (her words) *before* having to put all the decorations away after New Year's. She died, very suddenly, on November 21st. Well played, madam. Well played. 

     
         This is the third Christmas since we moved to Michigan. The first was agonizing; it felt so wrong not to be going to her house for dinner, to see her excitement as her grandchildren gazed at their gifts. To joke about resolutions and attempt trash can rimshots with balled-up wrapping paper wads. Guilt over the fun I was having with our relatives here warred with the ache to hug my mother on Christmas. Last year I was hurt and angry; I was also so nauseated I could barely swallow my own saliva without retching. There were good reasons for both, one of which is asleep in my arms right now. The other doesn't matter now. My Mom is gone, and I wasted her last year of life running from those issues instead of resolving them. I can't resolve them now. Ever. My mom is gone. 

       
                    She was going to come visit in May, when our farm is bursting at the seams with new life in its fledgling glory. Baby goats leaping like fuzzy pot-bellied ballerinas before tanking into the straw, butting each other over onto their sweet faces and baying for their mamas in offense. Adolescent chicks and turkey poults, partially feathered and gangly with baby-fuzz still covering their necks. Seedlings popping up in the newly-dug garden soil and the hens pecking through for worms. Fireflies appearing at dusk, a few more each night. Her little grand babies running for them, so sure they'll catch one someday. Scouting for tadpoles in our ditch, scooping them up in old sour cream containers and bearing their prize to the porch for all to admire. I was so excited; when she saw this, our new reality, she would understand why we moved away. She would've loved it, but now she's gone. 

   
                  She was going to meet her new grandson then, too. She always laughed when the babies snatched her glasses off, and Eivin is a pro at stealing mine. My first thought standing beside her casket was that she didn't have her glasses on. Of course not, she didn't need them. She was gone. Eivin met his Nana; he smiled at her like he'd known her face from the day he was born. For the first time ever, Nana didn't smile back. I hope she saw his face light up for her through her new eyes, wherever she is. 

   
               We aren't strangers to grief, my family. We're old friends with mortality, with pain, with hardship. We've also known luck, and perseverence, and strength. The first three joined us in my mother's warningless heart attack but the last three have been our companions through her years of chronic illness, giving us more time when the doctors said there was little. As my little sister and I held each other beside our mom's casket, I reminded her what our mom told me 19 years earlier in the same room of the same funeral home beside the casket of our brother, her own twin- that grief is the price we pay for having loved. She was worth every second and more, and the world is so much richer for every step she took upon it. 

     
                We didn't always get along, my mom and I. In some ways we were very different and in just as many we were much too alike. Both fiercely defensive of our view of what's best for our loved ones. Very passionate, very stubborn. But all things aside, she was my mom, and she was wonderful. She stood beside me as a 15 year old throwaway who came home pregnant and terrified. She guided my first days of motherhood. She coached me through my next four unmediated labors, held my right hand as her grand babies were born. Supported me through a miscarriage in September 2010. Taught me how to knit and make her awesome meatloaf. We giggled like teenagers and spent weeks picking out my wedding dress. She was the gravitational pull that held our family in orbit, our anchor. The siren song that could always bring us all back home. When my dad  broke the news of her death it was 1am in Michigan, and I instantly felt myself spiraling out into space. Leaving the comfort of orbit and watching my dark bedroom slowly sink away beneath me.  

 

   
               Honestly, I'm not expecting to find peace. My guilt in the fact that I didn't bridge our gap in time is never going to go away, or even lessen. I know that. Instead I'm hoping to somehow live around it, a blister that you always feel but don't always notice. That's not going to work today, unfortunately- how can it be Christmas when she's gone? 

           So this year, I'm lifting my glass to a few different things.

        Here's to the resilience of children, and the healing power of baby snuggles. 

        Here's to my incredibly amazing husband, who has held me together and shepherded our family in our pain. Here's to a man who has spent the last decade tirelessly loving a wife so profoundly broken in so many ways. 

        Here's to getting out of bed, to putting both feet on the floor and acknowledging that I'm alive, although some days I question if I deserve to be. 

        Here's to the great numbing power of grief, and how much easier it makes evening barn chores in subzero temperatures. 

        Here's to goats,  snowflakes, holiday lights, hot coffee and all the other things that have a talent for inspiring momentary warm fuzzies when nothing else in the world can. 

        Here's to persistent kittens and smiley babies, who can always succeed when the aforementioned things fail. 

        Here's to half-stale holiday cookies, and eating them in my underwear in the light of the stove at 2:30am when I just can't stand to close my eyes and hear the phantom ring of my phone anymore, and the paralyzing dread that still comes with it. 

       Here's to putting the kids to bed and heading to the couch, curling up around my aching stomach and listening to her favorite Josh Groban carols on YouTube over and over and over even though I never used to like them. 

       Here's to the hope that I'll someday be able to see people out with their moms and not have to fight an overwhelming urge to start rabbit-punching them in the kidneys. 

        Here's to getting so good at saying "I'm okay" that sometimes I almost believe it's true. Almost. 

       Here's to tomorrow, something I *can* change. And here's to the loved ones I will never, ever take for granted again. 

       Mom, wherever you are, Merry Christmas. It's not my holiday, but in my heart it will never really belong to anyone but you. 

          

Buffalo Squash Chili --- Recipe

There's nothing like chili and fresh bread when it's cold outside. I hated chili before (probably because we ate a lot of the canned stuff) but now it's a regular feature on our dinner menu. Easily thrown together and put in the crock pot for days when we're working in the barn or busy in general, and a great way to use up vegetable odds-and-ends. I use the crookneck squash and zucchini from our garden that we chunked up and dehydrated, but all sorts of veggies would work. This one is easily changed to suit your tastes and works with ground beef or venison as well. NOTE: I add dehydrated heirloom tomatoes too, just for kicks. If you use fresh or frozen vegetables you might need to drain your canned tomatoes so it doesn't end up watery. We use onions from the garden that are on the smallish side, and therefore stronger in taste. 

-1lb ground buffalo OR venison, beef, ect

-1 medium onion

-2-3 cloves garlic, chopped

-1 quart tomatoes OR 14.5oz can diced tomatoes, undrained

-1 half-pint jar plain tomato sauce OR 1 8oz can

-1C dehydrated vegetables (improvise freely!) 

-1 16oz jar beans, rinsed and drained

-1 tbsp chili powder

-1 1/2 tsp cumin

-Sea salt and pepper to taste 

Cook meat, onion and garlic in a 3qt pot over medium heat until browned. Drain.

 

Transfer to crock pot if that's the plan. Stir in tomatoes, squash and seasoning. 

Bring to a boil, stirring frequently. Reduce heat and cover, let simmer for at least 1hr. Add beans, simmer uncovered for 10min. Serve with shredded cheese, oyster crackers, ect. Serves 4, we double it. 

Resolution for Revolution: Help Change The Future of Food in 2014

           I've never been any good at New Year's resolutions. I'm great at making them, not so great at actually following through with them. My resolve usually peters out by about the third week of January and I'm right back to scarfing down chocolate, ignoring my abs or neglecting my kitchen floor again. I still haven't knitted a pair of socks or cleaned a fish myself, I still succumb to the occasional deep dish pizza binge and I haven't gotten past the Tom Bombadil chapter of "The Fellowship of the Ring." The list goes on. And on, and on, and on... yeah.

           Resolutions seem to be rooted in the human need to repair, maintain and improve ourselves. Our waistlines, our bank accounts, our level of education, and so on. The Walmart sale flyer stops advertising toys and god-awful Santa sweaters and goes straight to treadmills, hand weights and Suzie Orman books immediately following Dec. 25th. Some people do go so far as to resolve to improve the world around them through outreach, volunteerism, random acts of kindness towards strangers and so forth. All good things that should be acknowledged and encouraged, don't get me wrong, but there are other resolutions that could encompass both the personal growth and benefit of mankind spectrums.

            http://www.rollingstone.com/feature/belly-beast-meat-factory-farms-animal-activists

     This article does an amazing job of illustrating the reality of factory farming in America. Years of undercover work and insider accounts have given consumers a look inside where our food really originates, and its far from the bucolic circle of life and death that Fern confronted in 'Charlotte's Web.' The green pastures dotted with quaint wooden barns have been replaced with feed lots crammed with desperately ill cattle.

                "I was on my way to visit a farmer in California's Central Valley. It was one of those gorgeous autumn days when the hills of California are gold. Out of nowhere, a really nasty smell assaulted my nostrils—the stench of a gas station restroom sorely in need of attention. But I could see nothing that might explain the smell—all around me were the same blue skies and golden hills.

              And then, very suddenly, the golden hills turned jet-black on both sides of the highway: black with tens of thousands of cattle crowded onto a carpet of manure that stretched as far as the eye could see. I was driving through a feedlot, with tens of thousands of animals bellying up to a concrete trough that ran along the side of the highway for what seemed like miles. Behind them rose two vast pyramids, one yellow, the other black: a pile of corn and a pile of manure. The cattle, I realized, were spending their days transforming the stuff of one pile into the stuff of the other. This is where our meat comes from? I had no idea."                          

                                                                  -Michael Pollan, 'The Omnivore's Dilemma'

                      Sick chickens crammed into battery cages so small they can't move and resort to pecking each others' combs and feathers off in a desperate attempt to get the calories they need to churn out the eggs they exist to produce. Broilers who cant even stand due to a mixture of their terrible living conditions and the fact that they've been genetically modified to reach butchering weight at such a rapid pace that they often await slaughter lying in a soup of their own waste and the decaying bodies of their dead comrades. If they should happen to have open sores and obvious signs of disease, they're probably still fit for you to eat though. Pus? check. Salmonella? check. Campylobactor? check. http://truthaboutchicken.org/?utm_source=ASPCAsite&utm_medium=SalmonellaBlogPost&utm_campaign=TruthAboutChicken There's a darn good chance at least one of those is in there. No amount of Frank's Red Hot is going to make that any more appetizing.
                 
                    Pigs don't have it any better.
 http://www.humanesociety.org/news/press_releases/2012/05/wyoming_pig_investigation_050812.html
                    Neither do turkeys. http://www.mfablog.org/2013/11/thanksgiving-alert-investigation-uncovers-animal-abuse-at-turkey-factory-farm.html  We've raised turkeys for two years now, and I can attest to just how much personality these animals really have. Despite their tendency to become difficult to deal with as they reach maturity (and are instinctively focused on breeding during every waking moment, not unlike teenage boys) they're intelligent, endearing and just as deserving of humane treatment as any animal. We kept two hens as pets last year because we just couldn't bear to process them, and they died a natural death days apart after spending their lives presiding over our barnyard like matronly old ladies on a stroll in the park.

                    Cows in large-scale dairy operations don't fare any better.
http://www.cbsnews.com/news/video-shows-alleged-criminal-abuse-of-bettencourt-dairy-cows-in-idaho/ Even when not subjected to outright abuse, most cows live in a way that's far from ideal for them (as living beings) and us (the beings who subsequently consume their meat and milk.) They're pumped full of hormones to increase their milk production, hormones that have been proven to increase the rates of breast, prostate, colon and other cancers.http://www.foodandwaterwatch.org/factsheet/what-research-shows/ Recombinant Bovine Growth Hormone (rBGH) has been banned in Canada, Japan and Australia as well as the European Union, and somehow remains legal in the USA (kinda like the GMO corn these cows eat, hmm...) They're injected with antibiotics in order to counter the assault on their health from abhorrent living conditions. This is standard practice with the poultry and pork we eat as well. Yummy... who ordered a side of drug-resistant staphylococcus aureus with their burger? Anyone...?

        It's easy to demand change. Talk is cheap, until the McRib comes back on sale and the ethics of pork production stop mattering as much as getting that 2 for $4 BBQ pork-like product fix. We can point fingers at 'Big Ag' but in the end, we're the ones buying their products. Their practices continue because a market exists for what they provide, and things could get worse before they get better if Ag-Gag laws keep popping up on the ballots.  Every time we fill our shopping cart with their products, swipe our cards or hand over our cash, we're giving factory farms the means to continue committing atrocity. We're inviting them to keep making us sick. We're allowing ourselves to stay helpless and relinquishing control of our food to politicians who are more interested in the kickbacks from Big Ag than they are in the safety and sustainability of its products. Every time we eat their food we're putting our stamp of approval on their methods and assuring that their practices continue, at least for the time being. 

          There are alternatives. The market for responsibly-raised meat and dairy products is growing, and small-scale farming is gaining momentum again. Finding protein for your dinner table that you can actually feel good about eating is getting easier, even if you can't raise it yourself. Websites like http://www.localharvest.org and www.eatwellguide.org help pair up food-conscious folks with farmers.  Even good old Craigslist (as always, use with caution) can be a place to locate local farms that are willing to allow potential buyers to observe their practices and purchase directly. Word of mouth is invaluable; even if you're surrounded by urban sprawl, chances are there's a place to buy better meat nearby. 

        It's probably going to cost more, yes. The solution? Simply eat less meat. Incorporate more meatless into your meal plan, and you'll save even more money than you would've spent on factory farmed foam-tray nastiness. You just might lose some pounds as well; Americans eat far too much meat as it is. Do your aorta a favor, as well as your waistline and your wallet. Then when you do eat meat, why not have it be meat you can feel good about? 

          We hunt. We fish. We also barter with friends and relatives for our family's meat. What meat we do buy is purchased from the local family-owned butcher shops, and although we can't confirm it's all from responsibly-raised sources at least it's not Tyson. We occasionally submit to the siren song of the McD's dollar menu (and at least 2 members of our 8-person family always end up fighting over our lone bathroom for hours afterwards) and I can tell you exactly how many party boxes of tacos we require to feed us all. BUT, we're a lot better than we used to be. It's progress. It's something. The three homestead-raised chickens we roasted with garlic and parsley a few nights ago were three chickens that were not abused, mistreated or malnourished and had lived a life full of sunshine, green grass, adequate feed and clean water. They weren't fed chicken feed containing arsenic. They were healthy at the time of butcher and they weren't washed in bleach water. They tasted damn awesome, too. 

          This year, I resolve to put a lot more effort into sourcing our family's meat responsibly. I know we'll still end up eating Big (G)Ag's meat here and there as well, but it will be much less frequently. I resolve to vote with my grocery cart and with my debit card in all things I buy, and to continue shopping at family-owned small businesses as much as possible too. I resolve to stop being complacent, to stop being oblivious and to stop hiding behind apathy. I resolve to provide the best possible life for the animals in my care, our pets as well as our livestock. I resolve to make more deliberate food choices fueled by actual thought instead of convenience. Most importantly, I resolve to pass this knowledge on to my children, in hopes that they will live their lives as contributors instead of consumers. With the start of the new year, please take a second look at what goes onto your plate and consider what took place to get it there. You might find yourself in the same place at our collective table as I'm finding myself.