Roasted Griffin

I am not a vegetarian. That is not to say I don’t spend a fair amount of time thinking I should be. Eating animals is a way of life for me. I grew up in a house where a squirrel stealing from the bird feeder ended up in a meat pie for dinner, venison and grouse were a fall tradition, and tours of my father’s family slaughter house started around four years old.

Killing animals was never woman’s work in our family, cooking them was. Preparing meat has always been part of cooking and I, like most people, go out of my way to distance myself from the reality that pork is really a pig, beef is really a cow, and boneless chicken breast is really a muscle cut from the body of a once live, feathered bird.

All that started to change when I began farming. I started my farming life with chickens, the egg laying sort-  happy hens who peck in the yard and provide beautiful blue eggs every morning. My chickens provided breakfast in exchange for treats and shelter. They did not sacrifice their very being for dinner.

However, as fate would have it, we ended up with one too many roosters.  Both our roosters, Griffin and Shadow, were gorgeous boys, but they fought. Over time it became clear one had to go. It seemed the most logical thing to do was prepare one for dinner.

It was decided that Griffin would be the one to grace the table that evening. I wish I could say it was I who had the personal courage to be the one to end the life I had so caringly raised. I still to this day find a tremendous amount of hypocrisy in my inability to kill an animal for food, yet I eat them on a regular basis. Although that is not entirely true, as I have mastered killing a chicken, but it is still a dreaded task, one that makes me weep in sorrow as soon as the head hits the ground.

A friend served as the executioner that day, leaving me the task of preparing the body. After plucking, gutting and cleaning, I was left with a scrawny four or five pound bird, certainly not the Perdue to which I was accustomed. Still, determined my family would enjoy and thoroughly appreciate the sacrifice Griffin had made for the nourishment of my family, I carefully seasoned and put the bird in the oven.

Here is where it all falls apart. I roasted Griffin with all the love and respect I had and it was horrible. He was tough and skinny. The amount of meat on his body was barely enough to feed one, which was fine because barely one person was interested in eating this awful tasting bird.

I was devastated. All my build up over producing my own meat and living the dream of eating food I raised and cared for myself, outside of the awful, cruel realities of the slaughterhouse, was crushed in one harsh blow. What happened? What went wrong?

It became my quest to understand why my chicken was so awful and why a Perdue was so juicy and tender.

I have over time, learned the answer. It is not pretty. My chicken was not a meat bird, but rather the useless male of an egg laying breed. Unfortunately the fate of these males in the factory farms, is death at birth. On backyard farms, the males might make  it to the dinner table, but only if they are young and only in a stew pot, never as an oven roaster.

Grocery store meat birds are no longer a natural breed. They are unable to reproduce and if not slaughter within 8 weeks, can no longer walk and often will die to an exploded heart. On top of this gruesome fact, our tender juicy Perdues are injected with a salt water solution. Even the manufactured Frankenstein birds are not juicy enough for our palette and are artificially flavored and enhanced.

Roasted Griffin never stood a chance. My desperate desire to feel an intimate connection with my food, ended in a reality far worse then simply my lack of ability to be the executioner. It forced me to understand the challenges we face as a culture in regards to meat production and consumption are not so easily solved. 

For me, the whole experience made me think hard about my relationship with meat. Although I still have not made the commitment to a purely vegitarien diet, I am much closer then I was. I try to eat meat sparingly and when I do, I make a conscious and concerted effort to prepare it with care.

Animals play a key role in sustainable agriculture. Their waste is invaluable fertilizer, and their offspring provide much needed income during non-vegetable seasons. Their presence on the farm is also an endless source of inspiration, without which, farming for me would be incomplete.

The reality that our reliance on factory farming to feed our population’s unrelenting desire for large quantities of meat has created a system of highly processed and medicated meat of which that production can not be reproduced on any small humane farm for a price considered affordable by the masses is heartbreaking.  Unless as a culture we collectively value the animals and demand dignity to their life from birth through slaughter, and adjust our diets and budgets accordingly, factory farms will continue to be the ethical abomination of our society. One that  I, who spends many hours fretting over such issues, still play too large a part.

Every day I get up and take care of my animals, some who are destined for the table, and I dream of a different future. I know if we all become vegetarians, maybe the world would be a better place. But in that world my pigs would have no future. I instead prefer to dream of a future where meat is sacred and we all consume small amounts of this precious gift from the earth, always remembering the sacrifice made for our meal, while rejoicing and being thankful for the place we hold in the circle of life.

A Birthday Treat!

My birthday is in February.  Now those who know me well know I hate the cold. The only thing about winter I enjoy is traveling to the Caribbean. Now that I’m farming full time, the winter is doubly awful as now I can’t bundle away in the comfort of a heated house. I have to actually be in the cold every day, even when it is some ridiculous degree below zero. 

The other drag about farming in the winter is there is nothing going on. The babies do not arrive till spring. The chickens are hardly laying any eggs. The animals all just sit around waiting for the snow to melt, eating and drinking a tremendous amount of food, thus producing a tremendous amount of waste. So basically it is all the yuck work without any of the fun!

So, as my birthday was drawing near, I was bored and depressed and wishing for something exciting that did not involve the freezing cold. The morning of my birthday, I received an unusual posting in my email from the Vermont Bird Fanciers Group. Someone was looking to sell day old Sebastopol Goslings.

Now Sebastopol geese are beautiful. They are pure white with long curly feathers. Known for their friendly dispositions, these geese are most commonly raised as show birds. You can eat them, but the babies sell for $50.00-$60.00 with mature birds selling for $75.00. At that price, most Sebastopols never find their way to a dinner table.

Bridget and I had talked about getting geese in the spring. Once when we went to a neighboring farm, I was greeted by the most enthusiastic squawking from a flock of Toulouse geese that chased me around the yard until the farmer came out and rescued me. I thought it was the funniest thing ever. I knew I would one day Iwould add geese to our flock. So much personality in a bird was too much to resist!

Now these Sebastopols were being offered for $30.00 a bird, an unheard of price. In hindsight, I’m guessing the price was based on the fact that most sane people would think to themselves “what can you do with baby geese in the middle of winter.” Nature usually answers this question for us, since geese do not start lying until early spring.  Geese don’t usually have babies in February.

These babies were a surprise! The goose had laid the eggs about 3 months early and managed to keep them warm during the coldest time of the year. The woman who was selling them had hundreds of chickens, geese, ducks and so it was easy for this one mother to go unnoticed in a dark corner of the barn. When she heard babies squawking, she was utterly surprised.

Having never had geese, I did not really think through what challenges might confront me regarding baby geese in February. I just took it as a sign these geese were meant to be mine. It was my birthday miracle.

I called the women and pleaded my case. I really wanted the birds and it was my Birthday! Could she please save them for me as I was about 3 hours away and knew someone much closer could snatch them up before I could drive to Burlington.

Seeing as how it was only 7:30am in the morning, she agreed to hold them till lunch. I hoped in the car and drove up to Burlington. Upon arriving, I met a women who like so many others I had met was hooked on “Chicken Math.”  Her house, her yard, her barns were filled with poultry. She even had a coop on her screened in deck!

Sweet as could be, she politely tried to decipher if I had what it took to give her prized babies a proper home. In the end, I think she let me take the geese more because I showed up with cash and solved her problem, then she felt I was the best home for the geese.  But, how hard could 4 tiny fluff balls be?

Well the short answer to that question is HARD! I had set up a brooder box in my bedroom as I thought it was the safest place in the house for my birthday babies. I did not know that unlike chicks, goslings are looking for attention 24/7. It is exhausting being a mother goose. The babies wanted me with them all the time and cried loudly when ever I left them. I tried to tire them out with “swims” in the bathtub and circles around the room, but still unless I bundled them up in my shirt and carried them around with me they would not stop crying!

So for the first few days I changed my clothes often and carted these spoiled birds around the house. What was I going to do? It would be weeks before I could put them outside. Well, at the end of the day there was very little I could do, but make the best of it. After a week or so of the carting around nonsense, they had grown enough to not need to be in my lap to stay warm and were content to make a mess on the floor by splashing and playing in their water bowl.

They still cried when I left the room, but would now quickly returned to playing amongst themselves. The price I paid for their new found independence was a giant mess to clean several times a day!

What on day one was the best Birthday ever, was by day thirty, an exhausted “Mother Goose” who promised to never again raise a gaggle of winter geese. But like most torturous things regarding raising babies, the time passed and soon enough spring came and the geese could go outside.

They loved their new outside home, their kiddy pool and fresh grass. Now, almost a year old, they are all grown up.

We call them our poodle geese as they strut around the yard showing the world their gorgeous plumage. The Gander now hisses at me when I pay his girls too much attention and I find myself nostalgic for the days they never wanted to leave my lap.  I get excited thinking about the babies that will arrive in the spring….and wonder what I would do if by chance my girls give me babies in February!

Pebbles & SweetPea

Every since I can remember I have loved goats. Why, I am not quite sure, but I know I am not alone. Their big marble eyes, their absolute love of food, their playful antics all contribute to their charm. However, their real value is in the wholesome milk they produce and the fine meat they offer. Most of the world relies on goat, not cow products, as they provide the farmer excellent feed conversion ratios, are kinder to the land and require much less water then cattle.

Like most livestock, each breed has been bred for a specific purpose. Some are kept for their luxurious fiber, others for their meat and others for their milk production. A new breed of goats has been gaining popularity in the US for a very American trait, a pet. Nigerian Dwarf goats are small friendly little goats that produce an astonishing amount of milk for their size. 

Nigerian Dwarf goat keepers swear to the value of these daring creatures as milk machines, but as an owner of a small herd, and having milked these girls who teats are the size of my pinkie, I know in my heart of hearts, the milk they produce offers us “farmers” an excuse to have babies.

The arrival of the kids in the spring is nothing other then pure joy. They hit the ground running. In just moments after birth, these tiny 2lb animals are playing, nursing and simply loving life. It is impossible to not smile watching a new baby goat explore the world.

For many years I dreamed of such an experience on my own farm, with my own goats, but I always resisted the commitment to goat husbandry. With chickens I could go away for a couple of days and the chickens would be fine. Goats however would be a whole new level of farm responsibility that I had shunned away from…until I saw the ad for two Nigerian Dwarf doelings.

Why these two girls stuck out to me I do not know for sure, but I do know, the next day I was headed up to the White Mountains to meet my new babies. I had read everything I could about goats and hoped I was not making a mistake.

We arrived at the farm and uneventfully loaded the girls into a crate in the back of my van. Just like that, I was the owner of two goats.

I was scared, nervous and excited all at the same time. I was also to become deaf because as it turns out these very small animals, much like humans, have very big lungs! Having been separated from their mom for the first time ever, they cried and bleated and made me feel terrible for the entire 3 hours home.

These animals were miserable. That is until I arrived at home and offered some sweet feed. (Grain covered in molasses) Magically all the sadness vanished. I had just learned the way to my girls’ heart was through their stomachs.

I should have used this love of food as a clue to lengths they might go in a quest for yum yums. But alas like so many farming lessons, I was destined to learn this obsession with grain the hard way.

The goats were housed in a pen with a nice shelter attached to the chicken coop. I had cut a small 8”x8” hole in their shelter so the chickens could get inside the barn to roost at night. Little did I know a goat the size of a cocker spaniel could fit through such a small hole. But the girls could…and they did… and I found them the next morning inside the coop where they had eaten all the chicken food.

I had read that chicken food and goats were a bad mix. The grain swells in their stomachs and causes bloat. Sometimes so severe it can cause death. So when Pebbles refused to get up that afternoon and was quietly crying in the corner looking at me with the sadness eyes I have ever seen, I know we had to rush off to the vet.

I was facing the very possibility of my goat dying after less then 24 hours in my care.  Who would have thought keeping a goat alive was harder then a baby. I had done that pretty well, twice. Both my children managed to stay out of the emergency room many days after bringing them home from the hospital.

I was lucky. Pebbles was lucky. After inserting a tube down her throat and pouring in some mineral spirits, as the vet was able to treat the bloat and Pebbles came home alive.

I would love to say I have mastered keeping my goats away from chicken food, but I would be lying. They continue to amaze me with the numerous ways they find to come in contact with food other then their own.

I, however, have learned to administer mineral spirits down a goat’s throat, thus eliminating the vet bills that go along with their indulgences. Just when I’m sure I have all their tricked figured out, they surprise me.

My herd has grown and the goats have their own barn now, far from the chickens. Pebbles has established herself the leader of the herd.  It makes me smile to know that the same skills she utilizes to almost kill herself on a regular basis, are the same skills it takes to be queen. Her determination and creativity cause her and indirectly me, problems, but her willingness to take chances and never give up the quest for more and better food options has earned her the envy of all the other goats. All my girls follow her without question, confident Pebbles will lead them to the promise land of milk and honey and an accidently uncovered bin of feed!

2 Oz Furry

I have found over the years that chickens become a collector’s item. There are dozens of breeds, each coming in a wide range of colors and sizes. I know this is true for dogs as well, but if you collect dogs you are featured on a TV show requiring an intervention. Chicken’s well, you have “chicken math” on your side, always add, never subtract. After all, once you have twenty is thirty or thirty eight really that different? The food increase is negligible, as are the space requirements. The justification becomes, well easy.

So, over the years we have added chickens (or geese or ducks) here and there because they needed a home, or because we couldn’t resist. For the record, our farm has a business plan. We spend hours planning our flock and its expected contribution to the farm and its bottom line. However, the minute we show up to a farm/ and or chicken swap to purchase our carefully planned additions, our business plan seems to disappear and be replaced with, “Oh my gosh, we really need to add…..as well.”

This is exactly how Bantam Old English Game Hens entered our lives. While reading the paper, I saw an ad for Silkie chicks. Just days before, an unfortunate event with my daughter’s ferret had taken a toll on our newly arrived Silkie chicks. In order to both replace the chicks and elevate some of the sadness around this incredibly tragic event in what had been a very “unpeacable kingdom” within our home, we decided to pay this farm a visit.

The women who welcomed us into her home had chicken math down to a science. Her entire living room, dining room, study, and hallway were filled with heat lamps, brooder boxes and tons of chicks. All colors, sizes and ages. I looked at her husband and thought to myself “Now he takes the cake for understanding husbands! There is no way I would ever get away with anything even close to this.”

The husband sat on the couch, TV remote in hand and just disregarded the strangers in his living room as we peeked into box after box at all the potential new babies. We were there for the Silkies, so naturally the woman was trying to bring our attention to the several boxes which held the birds in which we were interested. Bridget, my daughter, had other ideas. She was mesmerized by a box holding some of the smallest chicks I had ever seen. These tiny balls of fluff were the size of a toasting marshmallow.

Bridget was in love. She knew right away they were Bantam Old English Game Birds. With all kinds of crazy chicken logic, Bridget convinced me we had to have these birds. (Of course not instead of, but in addition to the Silkies) I no longer remember what the logic of having a chicken that laid an egg the size of a walnut and when full grown was the size of a pigeon, was, but there must have been something because we left the house with 5 Silkies and 5 Old English Game Hens.

Fast forward six months. Our little flock was now fully grown and our rooster was beginning to mature. It is common at our house to not name birds until their personality reveals itself. With sometimes well over 100 birds, many of them looking very similar, it would be too much to keep track of so many names. But our Old English rooster was just coming into his name.

Weighing less then a pound, this feisty fellow was learning to crow. A nail down a chalkboard is the best way to describe this tiny bird’s call. He was so enamored by his new found abilities; he felt the need to practice his skill all day long and into the night. Any activity- movement of his hens, car in the driveway, dog walking by, wind blowing, leaf falling, anything would work him up to such a state, you wanted nothing more then to strangle this puny, loud, screeching bird.

But it got better. By one year, he was the proud roo to a broody hen. As soon as fatherhood was upon him, he conjured up the talents of his ancestors (Old English were breed for Cock fighting before it fell out of fashion) and become an attack bird. The pen became a battleground and feeding or watering the Old English required a suite of armor.

You would open up the pen and he would attack. It is embarrassing to complain about getting attacked by a bird weighing less then a pound, but this bird was relentless, and fought with unfettered passion. He became the 2oz Furry.

Now a normal person would have ended this bird’s rein long ago. The decibels produced each day alone would justify his demise. But that isn’t how it works on our farm. The fact is- he is a beautiful bird. He produces healthy strong babies in his likeness, and is a very gentle father and protector of his hens. None of girls loose so much as a feather under his care.

So although he ensures no guests ever want to spend the night at our home and our neighbors wish that they not purchased a house in an agricultural zone, he will live out his natural life waking us up with his screeching, high pitched whine at 3:00am and I will begrudgingly head into battle every morning to face the 2oz Furry.

The Willful Pig

After reading one too many books on the horrors of our modern commercial pork production but yet decidedly attached to bacon with my eggs, I decided I needed to add pigs to the family farm.

After careful research and many visits to farms and zoos housing heritage breed pigs, I decided American Guinea Hogs were the choice breed. American Guinea Hogs are excellent foragers, have a friendly disposition and are great mothers. They are cute, black and small, the perfect homesteading pig.

I purchased a registered breeding pair. The thought of two full grown pigs in my Hyundai Santa Fe made the sellers shutter, so they graciously offered to transport them to me in a horse trailer. Although in the pig world, Guinea Hogs are small, a full grown boar still weighs around 200lbs. Not easy to lift in a dog crate.

The pigs arrived on a rainy Saturday morning in late March. The male sauntered out of the trailer and into the pen where he promptly laid down to take a nap. The female had other ideas.
She charged through the hog panel set up to divide them in the trailer, pushed aside two grown men and took off. At this point I was told the gilt was not used to any human handling as she had been raised by her mom in the field and that catching her might prove tricky.

What an understatement. No amount of food bribes seemed to hold her interest long enough to get her into the pen. The farmer, frustrated his “drop off” delivery was turning into a morning long endeavor, tried everything he could think of to get her into the pen. But, the harder we tried, the more stubborn she became. She would race around the yard, across the cornfield, across the road into the neighbor’s field, then back across the road. She would circle the pen, and then take off back across the road.

Soon the neighbors showed up to help and we had six people all trying to get this pig into the pen. We built temporary panels to try to funnel her into the pen, we had lassoes to try to rope her legs, we tried every delicious pig treat we could think. Nothing worked. She was determined to elude capture even if it meant hunger, thirst and exhaustion.

One by one the helpers gave up. Hours of chasing a crazed pig through muddy fields was both tiresome and frustrating. Around 3:00pm, the gentleman who delivered the pigs informed me he was very sorry but there was nothing he could do and he needed to leave. The last helper, my daughter stayed true for a bit and then even she gave up and went into house.

I found myself left alone with a loose pig. By now the sun had come out and warmed the early spring air. I followed her into the neighbor’s pasture where in complete exhaustion she laid down, her head resting on the ground, her eyes wide open looking at me.

I sat down a few feet from her. I slowly crept up to her and petted her on the head. She smiled, rolled over and fell sound asleep. I sat there petting her thinking, now what? In this Thomas Hardy moment, I decided to enjoy the time in the pasture with my new pig. So there we were napping in the sun snuggled up on the cold March ground wondering what would happen next.

I woke up about an hour later with her still sleeping by my side. I looked at her- so peaceful in the twilight and decided to name her Tess, thinking of the stubborn, willful, yet idyllically beautiful peasant girl in Tess of the d'Urbervilles.

Cold and hungry, I decided to give up. She would have to spend her first night alone outside. If she got hit by a car or ran away never to return, I had to accept that fate. I pet her one last time, said good night and started walking back across the field toward the house.

Much to my surprise, Tess followed. As I neared the pen, the male started making grunting sounds, to which Tess seemed to respond. I thought to myself, there is no way it can be this easy, but I decided to give it one last try. I led the male into the shelter, blocked the door and opened up the pen gate. I then stepped aside as Tess sauntered into the pen, waited for me to open up the door to the shelter, went inside and laid down next to her new mate. I closed the gate and said “Goodnight,” exhausted, but relieved the ordeal was over and she would be safe for the night.

After a whole day of chasing, hours of stress and anxiety for all parties involved, Tess had accepted her new home and I accepted that raising American Guinea Hogs was going to offer much more then fresh pork for the table.

Starting with Chickens

Chickens are one of the most rewarding suburban farm endeavors. They are inexpensive and require minimal labor to keep, yet offer a tremendous amount of entertainment, great learning opportunities and delicious eggs. You can supply your family with eggs year round with just a small flock of four or five hens.  In addition to the practical rewards, in keeping chickens you will learn first hand the many idioms of our agrarian culture.

Pecking order, hen pecked, don’t count your chickens before they hatch, scratching out a living, mother hen. When living with chickens these sayings all become real and one gains a much deeper understanding of how these saying have become part of our collective cultural language.

After having had chickens for a couple years, we decided to indulge an older hen who had gone broody and allow her to sit on a nest of eggs. For those unfamiliar to the chicken scene, a broody hen is one who stops laying eggs and instead wants to sit on them to incubate and hatch out a little chicken family.

Now this sounds normal enough, but it is actually a bit more complicated. Most people who are keeping chickens are doing so for the eggs. Thus when a hen goes broody, on a “real” egg farm, this hen would be destined for the stew pot.

Over the years, through the commercialization of farming with need for efficiency and productivity, many of the modern breeds of chickens have long since lost their natural mothering skills. The “best” breeds are those that do not go broody. Rather the eggs are incubated and hatched artificially in an environment where all the optimum egg hatching conditions can be met. Thus, many breeds of chickens are quite unsuccessful at hatching and raising chicks. They might go broody, but only sit for a few days and then decide scouring the yard for treats is a more interesting pastime. Or, she might sit until they hatch but them abandon them at birth or simply ignore them after a few days.

Left without human interference, a hen will lay an egg every day or so until she has a clutch. (A collection of 5 to 10 eggs) Once she feels she has a clutch, she will sit for twenty one days keeping the eggs warm. She will leave the nest for short periods to eat and drink, but never long enough for the inside of the eggs to cool.

In a coop with several hens and a caretaker who collects eggs everyday, the natural course for reproduction becomes a challenge for the hen. She thinks she has a clutch and then “poof” her eggs are gone! She makes a nest and then three other chickens lay their eggs in the same nest. Almost a clutch in just three days…then “poof” her eggs are gone again. At some point she will get crabby and really cause a ruckus when the eggs are collected, and then eventually she gives up and just sits anyway, eggs or not! When a hen reaches this level of desperation in her attempt to hatch a family, she has gone “broody.” It is too heart wrenching to just not give her some eggs. 

Small backyard farmers who relish the convenience of “free incubation” and enjoy watching a mother hen with her brood in the barnyard have begun to ensure the continuation of many heritage breed birds who might not lay as many eggs, but have other useful qualities, such as foraging and raising their own young.

All the chickens we breed on our farm are of the heritage sort. I love seeing the circle of life in all my animals and my chickens are no exception. So, we stopped collecting from her nesting box and let mama hen sit on 6 eggs and waited to see if the memories from her ancestors would serve her in her quest for motherhood, as she herself had been born in a hatchery and came from a long line of hatchery birds.

After twenty one days, we checked the nesting box and much to our great surprise and excitement there was a fluffy little chick tucked in its mother’s wing. When a chick hatches it absorbs the yolk sack (the yellow part of the egg) allowing it to survive up to 3 days without any food or water. For modern poultry enthusiasts, this is fabulous as it allows day old chicks to be shipped via the US Postal Service, a service they have offered since the early 1900’s. In a natural setting this is useful because not all babies are born at the same time. This allows the mother to sit for a couple of days on yet to hatch eggs, without jeopardizing the health of the chicks that have already hatched.

After two days, mama hen had three babies following her around the yard. If any of the other hens, or rooster, or dog tried to get anywhere near the babies she was right there to scare them off. If a chick wandered too far and started to cheep, she was right there showing it the way back to the others. All day she watched those chicks, keeping them warm under her wings, or showing them the best places in the yard for treats. Then one day about 12 weeks later, she was done. Her babies were grown and she went back to laying her eggs. The babies had a hard time adjusting to the abandonment, but mama hen had done her job well.

Now, when I hear the expression “Mother Hen” in reference to an over protective mother, I understand what they mean, but my daughter and I always laugh to ourselves, because we know that although a hen’s dedication is unwavering, it is also very short lived!

Musings of a Farm Dreamer

How many times have you passed by a picturesque farm house with a majestic red barn surrounded by lush green pasture and dreamed of knowing that life?  I used to fall asleep at night imagining what it would be like

to immerse myself and my family in the agriculture heritage of our past.

A time when the dinner on the table represented an entire families’ labor and the bounty of a harvest was truly a joyful celebration of survival and fellowship. I longed to have the seasons represent a true and meaningful connection with my life, not simply a change in weather.

The nostalgic fantasy of the farm filled my imagination for many years, as I know it does for many. Why would any sound of mind suburbanite dream of adding the responsibility of 24/7 farm animals and food production to an all ready overfilled schedule? Most dismiss the idea and let the dream pass as the barn and farmhouse fade from view. But for some, myself included, the desire to participate in “the life” becomes too great, so we find ourselves knee deep in the realities of small scale farming and animal husbandry.

For me, it started with chickens. First came the chicken palace, a charming structure sided with cedar shakes, roofed appropriately with architectural shingles, insulated and then wired for the birds’ winter comfort. I then promptly planted the entire perimeter with an impressive array of perennials, the perfect finishing touch for my feathered friends abode.

I then promptly placed my order for 25 pullets and hoped I would be a worthy caretaker for my day old chicks, which would arrive via the United States Postal Service.

A year later I had happy, laying hens who all heartedly enjoyed eating the perennial garden.  Contentedly unaware of my human aesthetical preference for their yard, the chickens then continued their satisfaction by digging up all the roots during their dust baths in the skeletal remains of the once stunning perennial bed.

Despite the blow to my beautiful chicken yard, my girls did present me, as appreciation for my efforts, a colorful basket of eggs in which I know even Martha Stewart would have been proud! I also enjoyed hours of entertainment as I watched my flock peck around my yard clucking and squawking as they went about their predictable routine.

Since those early days with the chickens, my farm life has become increasing more complex. However, if I am overwhelmed with all that life is presenting me, I still to this day can just take a deep breath and go watch the chickens. It never fails to ground me and fill me with an overwhelming sense of peace.

For those that are still just dreaming the farm dream, I am hear to tell you suburbanites’ can enjoy, if only a very small piece, the nostalgic farm dream. Even just a few hens, offering your family their fresh eggs, in exchange for a few moments of your time in the morning- to let them into the sun, give them food and water, and in evening to close them back into the coop ensuring their safety at night can share the circle of life in a real and meaningful way. Even just a few hens are enough to help remind us of the complex cycle nature requires for something a simple as an egg.

Over the last few years, although I love my animals and the lessons they have taught me and my family, I have felt frustrated by the small difference my farm can make in the context of larger issues which weigh heavy on my heart. For example, I would love it if as a society we did not rely of factory farms. I wish more country homes had a few chickens in the yard and I wish my experiences could help move us toward a future filled with more of my neighbors able to share the joy in the agricultural practices of our past.

 My family and friends, who listen tirelessly to my rants about the challenges of small scale food production and our society’s diminishing first hand knowledge of even the most basic farm activities, are amused by my crazy animal stories.  They are sometimes in awe of how my stories make them realize just how far removed they are from the realities of food production. Upon reflecting on this interest in hearing the farm adventures, I felt a glimmer of hope in my ability to further my causes beyond the boundaries of my small farm.

I could share with you, the suburban farm dreamers, my journey. My bumbling, error filled misguided, yet hugely rewarding journey in re-connecting with our agrarian heritage. Unlike our farming ancestors who learned their skills from parents, grandparents, uncles and aunts, many new to farmers have to learn from the Internet, YouTube and books. I feel a voice of encouragement from another “farming newbie” might be helpful, or at least entertaining.

For some my tales might provide the confidence to make the dream of owning goats and making cheese or raising chickens for meat or eggs a reality. For others, living the tale vicariously might raise awareness on what it really takes to bring the food you eat to the table. This knowledge is valuable, whether you are the one mucking the pig pen or not because change only happens when we collectively care and we can only care about that which we know. In writing this column, it is my goal through the simple stories of my farm life to help you know just a bit more about what our great grandparents and grandparents knew as a course of life, that it doesn’t take a rooster for a chicken to lay an egg, but it does if you want a chick!