I don’t mean to split my readers, but I’ve started another blog called The Livestock Gardener. This is where I will chronicle my forays into meat – raising it, housing it, humanely slaughtering it and consuming it. I’m at the start of quite an adventure, so if you’re interested in following it please check out The Livestock Gardener at livestockgardener.wordpress.com.
We never tire of eggs! 10 young laying hens and the girls keep us in an abundance of eggs everyday during the sunny seasons. In this family of five our consumption often keeps pace with their production, but occasionally the eggs start stockpiling. We love to share them with non-chicken folks, but recently we’ve been determined to figure out how to preserve them as food for future use. Other than quiche we were at a loss for what to do… below is our first successful experiment in freezable egg recipes!
Egg and Sausage Breakfast Pasties
Makes about 3 dozen
Cook broccoli, or whatever stealth vegetable you want to sneak into your kid’s diet, until soft (Shhh!).
Cook sausage until done. Ours was a homemade sausage and quite greasy. Drain oil if necessary (Yay! Delicious pork fat for future use!). Let cool.
Before scrambling eggs, ladle some whites into a separate bowl for glazing the pasties before baking.
Then scramble away.
Start bread dough.
Mix broccoli into cooled, drained sausage…
…until it becomes a delicious mash.
Scramble eggs separately at first…
… then add delicious mash!
Allow the steam to release and the mixture to cool until next step.
If the dough has risen and your mixture isn’t cool, place in the fridge until all ingredients are ready.
While you’re waiting, grate the cheese.
Mix cheese into cooled egg mixture.
For ease I separated the dough and the egg mixture into relatively equal amounts for distribution (these photos show five bundles of each, but in fact they wound up as seven distinct pairings of dough and egg mixture).
Roll out the dough into very flat rounds
Don’t worry about over filling! Stretch that dough!
Pinch the edges to make crescent shaped pasties. Glaze with the egg whites.
Bake for 20 minutes at 350 F. If you like a harder crust add 5 minutes or so.
Let cool and freeze. For future use, defrost and pop in the toaster oven for 10 minutes. Enjoy!
Any basic bread recipe will work, but since we had such an abundance of eggs we went the extra mile and made Challah, a traditional egg-rich Jewish bread. It’s extra pliable too, so it makes for easier stretching to really pack the stuffing in!
Challah
Mix 2 cups flour, sugar, salt and yeast. Blend well. Heat 1 cup water and butter until very warm. Add liquid and eggs to flour mixture. Blend until moist – beat 3 minutes. Slowly stir in additional flour until dough pulls cleanly from sides of bowl.
Knead or mix 5 minutes until dough is smooth and elastic. Let rise ~35-45 minutes until doubled in size. For pastie recipe follow instructions above.
That’s it for now. Thanks for stopping by!
My friend has been in the news these days. Lovely guy, king of the volunteers, always canvassing for the best local politician or local arts program. Charming but not slick, handsome but unassuming, a devoted advocate for good without any personal agenda. Sweet. I sincerely hope that the charges of embezzlement are not true.
Be assured: this is not a post about my friend, or about his relative innocence or guilt. From here on our fallen hero will be a fabrication – a foil for my reflection – as are any suppositions about the path to his sad unraveling. This post is about aspiration and money, perception and realty. It’s about making an honest living and living honestly. Buddha called it Right Livelihood.
Mine is a small village in many ways. Those of us who are involved in local politics, who work on civic projects and community efforts, all know each other. You’d think there were only 150 people in this village instead of 150,000. I can tell you that no matter how ‘grassroots’ you may be, or how small your community, if you are seen as a power broker it can be heady. You will feel the pull to play the part. It’s exciting to have that kind of agency. Your inner compass may start to spin.
I thought of myself that way a few years ago. I wore heels and a Blackberry in a holster on my hip. I was at every function, smartly dressed, working the room. I ran fundraisers, attended fundraisers, went silently broke at fundraisers. I was in the Big League! I was faking it and making it, but not really. It was vapor. My part-time, under-paid job with the fancy title was slipping away. I prayed all these connections would present me with a step up, but they just presented me with more chances to rub elbows. I looked like a player and I played the part, but I was marooned on an island of pretense. I imagine my friend, our fallen hero, in a similar situation. It’s hard to keep up appearances, especially when people’s ideas about you are your only currency.
Henry David Thoreau knows what I’m talking about. In his essay “Economics” he writes about his early career – trying to be accepted, writing fluff and bits about the weather, working his way into “important” circles, waiting for his talent to be praised and for the local elite to award him his rightful place at the table.
(The world is a much better place because he stopped waiting, don’t you think?).
His epiphany,which led to his retreat to Walden pond, is explained in a parable: A basket maker takes note of the local town’s wealthiest residents. Lawyers, doctors, politicians – their rich livelihoods are supported by the town’s people. He decides that he will sell them his baskets and therefore be supported in like fashion. When he knocks on the doors of the well-off he is shocked to hear the same thing repeatedly, “We have no need for baskets.”. He is outraged! Shouldn’t they support him as they are supported? Turns out the answer is no. If you have nothing they need you’ll have no business. But Thoreau took the basket maker’s dilemma to heart. His decision wasn’t to change his profession. His decision was to make it so he never had to “sell baskets” again. His time in Emerson’s cabin was an exercise in needing less, not making more.
Did our fallen hero, after taking his seat at the table of power brokers, find himself unable to pay for the meal? Did he start a tab in hopes that his baskets would finally sell because of his new status? A tragic hero Shakespeare would recognize, it seems.
I remember thinking, just after my election to the local School Board, how unseemly it would be for me to take a job at the local coffee shop or grocery store. People’s ideas of my political clout (and therefore my ability to use it) would not match up with my menial labor and unquestionably low pay. I was trapped by my social position. My “importance” could have very well led me to real poverty, and possibly to make irrevocably bad decisions. Instead I chose, paradoxically, to retreat from public life, at least the meaningless parts of it, and began working towards a sustainable family economy – free of the proverbial basket sale. I began to work hard to live well with very little, and am grateful to be liberated from the need for status. I am a budding farmer, feeding my family the very best food, learning compassionate animal slaughter, turning my attention inward – towards my children, my household, my livelihood. I am not ashamed or imprisoned by our relative low income. My truth is reflected on the outside as well as inside. I have changed.
Our fallen hero is someone I understand. I feel compassion for the lessons he’s learning. I feel love for him as he publicly faces his inner turmoil. And I hope he eventually finds freedom in his loss of status.
There aren’t a lot of essentials in life. Food, of course. Water. Shelter. Love. I think that about covers it. Money is the way most of us secure these things – or in the case of love, sometimes we chose money over it – but Jay and I have taken a different approach. We look for ways not to need much money.
These past few years we have focused on food – growing it, gleaning it, sharing it, butchering it, preserving it and enjoying it. We’re hardly experts, but our backyard gardening skills are getting honed and through networks of generosity we essentially have all the fresh produce we need without having to buy it. Livestock and poultry find their way to us for slaughter – roosters, old hens, turkeys, even a pig – and our freezer is filling up with a lovely array of meat for the table. Ten young hens lay eggs for us every day. We’re doing alright in the Food department.
Water is our next project. I can’t say much about water conservation except that we plan on installing rain cisterns and redirecting the laundry water into a grey water system sometime this year. With the apparent drought we’re facing we might have to jam on that grey water system! Will the grey water flood the backyard? Will the rains from next winter be sufficient for our garden the following summer? I promise to keep you apprised of our mishaps and victories!
Third on the list is Shelter, which is a tricky one because it will always demand money. Currently we’re trying to modify our home loan through the new HAMP program (brought to us by our beloved President Obama). This should lower the interest rate and reduce the mortgage to something manageable in relation to our very low income. In previous posts I have fantasized about walking away from this house for something even funkier in the country – something we could buy outright – but reality set back in and this is our best option. We love our drafty old house with the big-enough backyard. It fits the five of us nicely, and with the basement being built-out possibly another soul could join our adventure one day. We’ll have to be discerning about who we invite to do that of course, as recent events have taught me. I’ve been known to be naive about these things. I think of myself as idealistic, but sometimes the theory doesn’t pan out in practice.
And lastly Love, which probably doesn’t need description, but I believe it is how we’ve made any progress with the 3 “essentials” listed above. I can’t grow all the food we need in our relatively small backyard (.15 acre), but I don’t need to. We share with friends and they share with us. We’ve created a community built on friendship and abundance. These friends have helped with plumbing and construction, advice about our mortgage, are drafting the plans for our water systems… and we help them in turn. They love our children, and so can watch them while I accompany Jay to his doctor’s appointments. We are trustworthy and honest with them and they return the favor – family in the truest sense of the word; a community greater than the sum of its parts. Ironically, Love is the cornerstone of self-reliance and yet cannot be achieved alone. At least that’s true in my world, and I mean to keep it that way.
That’s it for now. Thanks for stopping by.
There was a time when my (now ex) husband’s leaving was the most devastating thing I could imagine. I was a new mother and he was outta here! His job was his excuse, but fatherhood was the reason. Parenthood made him panic, so Bob took a job jetting around the world and our home became a pit-stop between journeys. As a friend said at the time of our split, “If Bob admitted how much he loved his job he’d have to admit that he left on purpose.” So true.
For 10 years I thought of our marriage as my great work, and parenthood was to be the pinnacle of our long, happy partnership. But instead Bob retreated. When he was home he mocked my sadness. When he was gone our phone conversations were held between flights, or outside of restaurants, during minutes between things. I had an affair with a friend and began to unravel. Bob never noticed.
In retrospect, I continued to unravel for quite a while afterwards. I wreaked a lot of havoc and made an ass of myself more than once. I grasped at lovers like life rafts and burned a few bridges. I drank way too much. I was completely untethered without a partner, someone to reflect back my worth. There I was, a 40-something mother with a small child, acting like an enraged teenager on a bender. How lovely. I needed to grow the fuck up.
Year’s later (as this blog chronicles) I have a new and improved partner. He brought his two kids into the mix, so we’re deep in the throes of parenthood and love. Jay is transgender, so whatever Freudian pitfalls buried in the average man’s psyche (the ones that can turn a Marxist Musician into a Corporate Slave at the sight of a baby) are not an issue. We are true partners and very happy, outside of the fact Jay has cancer that cannot be cured. That part sucks, and has me considering the effects of life without a partner yet again – in the abstract of course.
For nearly three years Jay and I have been facing cancer side by side. There have been a few times we thought we were cured. There have been a number of times we thought death was very close. We have made plans despite the unspoken question of whether life would last that long. We have been honest with the kids, managing their anxieties in the midst of our own. School years and birthdays and seasons have rotated through & we marvel that we’re here to see them come around again! Such a blessing, these everyday things.
As it turns out, Bob’s leaving wasn’t as devastating as it felt. I can think of a lot more devastating things.
Last weekend Bob was urgently trying to reach Stella on the phone. He was in Dubai. He was having a health scare. He didn’t have anything particular to say to our girl, but he wanted to hear her voice. He loves Stella, though he sees her only 6 days a month. When they finished their conversation Stella said wistfully, “Why does daddy have to be the President of his company? Why can’t he be the President of Walgreens? Walgreens is right down the street!”. Then she wandered into the kitchen to help Jay with dinner. The five of us ate together, the kids were read to at bedtime, the sun set and rose the next day. On Sunday the kids had a water fight and built forts in the garden. We savored our everyday life.
I am grateful for these gifts in my life, no matter what the future holds. And somewhere along the way, I’m not sure how, but I may have grown up these last few years. Seems like the right time to do it.
We got a call today. Something about Jay’s blood work. We thought we’d have a few months before we had to think about his oncologist. Instead we have the next available appointment – Thursday afternoon. That’s all we know right now, but that kind of says it all.
God damn it.
Being in love with someone in Jay’s position is its own special torture. Holding part of the fear and grief of cancer but not being able to shoulder it for him – I’ll take this next round of chemo, babe – is debilitating sometimes. Horrible. Heartbreaking. I often reflect on that awful scene in The African Queen when Bogart, having just faced the horror of being covered with leeches and the fragility of his fears, realizes that he must get back in that leech-infested water. There’s no alternative. Only now he knows what’s in the water. It’s worse, and Hepburn can only watch in agony as he lowers himself back in.
Thankfully we had the opportunity to spend time crying this morning. It shocks us every time. Now we will assume the fatigue of people in a long war, weary just thinking about it but grateful for the cease-fire however short lived.
I caught myself praying to God for a miracle. He told me this life is the miracle. Jay is a blessing. And the journey is worth every step.
That’s it for now. We’ll keep you posted.
It’s been two days since I killed the turkey. I didn’t raise it, so I didn’t really know it, but it had round dark eyes and what seemed like a sweet disposition. It lived tucked away in the hills of a local cemetery - the mortician as its caretaker. Twice a day Ed, the mortician, would don the cut-off sleeves of an embalming shirt and hoist the bird towards food and water – it hadn’t walked in 3 months, its top-half having grown too great for its legs. I arrived Thursday afternoon and took the bird from Ed. It spent its last night in the base of a dog crate in my basement.
The turkey was purchased at the Solano County Fair’s 4-H auction last August. A turkey hen was thrown in and the birds went to live at the cemetery. Time passed, Thanksgiving came and went, and the turkeys continued to grow. It is a sickening thing we’ve done to certain poultry, breeding them to have so much breast meat that their legs break under their own weight. The bird’s caretakers where not aware of the pressing imperative to slaughter it. We all shared a sad relief when I agreed to do it.
The bird had no name in life, but in death we’ve named it Toodles (in honor of a certain pig called Noodles, the subject of an earlier post ‘Nearly Free Meat’). Toodles weighed 50 lbs on his day of slaughter and dressed out to 33 lbs clean. Toodles, like Noodles, will feed our family nicely for a while.
It’s strange to think of these birds, or that pig, as urban food waste but that is exactly what they would have become had they not been slaughtered. It’s even stranger to consider the odd niche I’ve found myself in – the recipient of that food, the bringer of death and filler of freezers – but it fits perfectly into my home economic plans and I am grateful for the generosity of the animals and their owners.
Toodles was a strong, healthy bird despite his condition. It took two of us to humanely end his life, many minutes for the life to leave his body, and all afternoon to clean the carcass. I will collect the turkey hen (Mrs. Toodles?) in the next week or so – before her legs give out – and repeat the process again. Slaughtering something this size is physically and emotionally taxing, but I am thankful every day for the food it brings to our table.
Happy Spring, Everyone!
You can imagine what the kids thought when this was pulled out of the ground last year
Spring of 2010 was the first time Jay got a hold of the garden. It had weeds 3 ft high, and two pathetic raised beds buried in what we would later call The Back 40. The backyard was a living example of the collateral damage of my divorce – an expanse of pure neglect.
Then Jay found it.
We weed-wacked our way down to the soil and started our slow reclamation of the backyard. That first year we focused on The Back 40. When Jay was diagnosed with cancer we set up the hammock so he could look onto the lush veggies spilling out of the beds. The rest of the garden sat dormant, but The Back 40 showed tremendous promise.
The following Spring, 2011, Jay was still in treatment. He recovered from his colostomy surgery and his chemo came to an abrupt end in March. We built more beds and grew more food. The kids named our garden Muddy Feet Farm. In the Fall we built a chicken coop and started Food Rescue. We were literally tripping over the abundance in our home. This was the life we had both yearned for. We were so happy. Then Jay was re-diagnosed in December with advanced stage 4 cancer.
Spring of 2012 was emotionally bleak, but the garden was beautiful. Jay planted peas and green beans, chard and carrots. The plants grew. There may not be anything in the world more hopeful than a Spring garden. As Jay and I contemplated his death we tended our mini-farm, raised our kids and prayed a lot. Jay was meant to eat those green beans and carrots. We left our inept oncologist and found our way to Napa, where the fates delivered a team of angels. Food Rescue idled at times, but never stopped. The garden expanded in the Fall to include most of the backyard. We passed through the year alive, grateful for every moment. We were married in October.
We spent yesterday afternoon in the garden. We planted more broccoli, chard, kale, nasturtiums, favas, and beets. Today’s rain has brought all our plants to attention. Packets of peas, cilantro, chives and zinnias wait for us on the dining room table; one should never squander a warm rainy day by failing to plant! Jay is waking from his daily post-radiation nap. He has 10 more radiation treatments left, zapping the spot of his second, most recent lung surgery. We feel hopeful, and the garden is full of promise.
That’s it for now. Thanks for stopping by!
Yesterday I picked up this terrific little book called Make the Bread, Buy the Butter. In snappy, no-nonsense prose Jennifer Reese (author) makes the compelling case that economy should trump romance when it comes to the “homemade” life.
Like a lot of us, her journey began with loss of income. After being laid off she chose to “economize by doing for herself what she had previously paid for.” Her book is filled with insights and anecdotes about her family, kitchen & garden, but what I love most about it (and what makes it unique in the realm of DIY home making books) is her collection of experiments and data. She does what I have never been successful at – breaking down homemade food production into dollars and cents – then offering her opinion as to whether is is cost-effective to either Make It or Buy It.
The author dishes on cheese making, killing chickens, keeping bees, making peanut butter and curing meat. She also shares recipes for making oreo cookies, glazed donuts and marshmallows. How refreshing! Absent from Ms. Reese’s story is the romantic hipster-ism of many current urban homesteading manuals. Also absent is any hard commitment to organics, food politics or “prepper” self-reliance. This is her story, her family’s shopping list, and her research into the monetary cost of homemade foods. I may not agree with every opinion she shares, but I certainly appreciate the spirit and frankness of her insights.
As I stare at the cauliflower waiting to be pickled on my butcher block table, the jar waiting for another batch of homemade peanut butter to fill it, the dregs of bread-butts reminding me it’s time for baking again… none of these things compel me to forgo the work it takes to make these things at home. But I am certainly rethinking the goats-for-milk plan and am grateful that making butter isn’t currently on my to-do list.
Lucy and Ethel try their hand at breadmaking
That’s it for now. Thanks for stopping by!
