The Balance

Tomorrow, my theoretical wish to be a farmer finally runs up against the hard edges of reality. After seven months, I'm taking two of my first pigs to slaughter, and it will test my commitment in a way that nothing has before. I'm not broken up about the prospect, exactly, but I am filled with an odd mix of emotion: unease, guilt, worry, and even anticipation. I'm torn, trying to both put things out of my head and hold onto every nuanced feeling. Part of me wants to be a vegetarian, part of me is curious about the bacon; maybe, just maybe, that's the right balance.

I know the pigs have had a good life, better than most pigs certainly. I know I've eaten pork in the last week that came from hogs whose lives weren't a shade as long or comfortable. I know the pigs are out in the trailer tonight largely oblivious to what tomorrow holds. I know that if I cared too much about them I couldn't be farming, and if I didn't care at all, I shouldn't be.

After we loaded the pigs this evening, I went out and sat by the trailer and had a beer. The sun was just starting to set over across the brook, behind the trees. I'd look in at the two hogs from time to time, and they'd look back at me, their eyes at once clever and uncomprehending. They're big now, almost ten times the size they were when they first came to the farm. They've rooted and wallowed and slept in the sun and have never stood on concrete once in seven months. As far as I'm concerned , that's the trade. It's no the best trade in the world, but it's the fairest I can offer. On the balance, it just about equals out.

No, I Swear It's Not Poisonous...

For perhaps the first time ever, the Today Show has proven itself good for something.

You see, watching the Today Show a few weeks ago, my mother became inspired by a cooking segment featuring, of all things, a wild weed. The weed goes by the somewhat schizophrenic name 'garlic mustard weed' (is it garlic? is it mustard? does it really need to be both?), taxonomic name Alliaria petiolata, and the plant is an invasive weed native to Europe. I found it somewhat surprising that a.) The Today Show would be so bold as to suggest that its average viewership be trusted to forage for its own dinner, and b.) that my mother would suddenly be filled with a righteous garlic mustard weed fervor. And yet, here we are.

I should say, at this point, that garlic mustard weed is NOT poisonous. That emphatic decree is there because I, myself, was a wee bit skeptical. Which is odd: I eat wild mushrooms every season, and, with field guide in hand, I've dug indian cucumber and picked watercress. But somehow, coming from a nationally syndicated morning talk show packed with vacuous talking heads, the safety of eating a roadside weed seemed dubious. And my mother's gung-ho attitude and numerous past refusals to acknowledge common sense didn't help. When she gets an idea like this one, there is nothing left to do by put poison control on speed dial and cross your fingers.

But garlic mustard weed is indeed nontoxic; in fact, it's quite tasty. That's assuming you get the right plant. I won't presuppose here to be qualified to teach plant identification. But a quick google will reveal enough definitive info to get you out in the woods. Actually, because of it's invasive nature, getting out there and picking garlic mustard weed is good for the local ecosystem; just make sure and pick the whole plant, roots and all. Stop just short of salting the earth. And, on the plus side, you don't even need to go too far to find your quarry, since the weed loves to propagate on marginal land, such as road sides.

So why bother? Well, the stuff is actually pretty delicious. The weed is bitter and somewhat peppery, a sort of arugula-esque spinach, closest in taste perhaps to a broccoli rabe. We've eaten the plant two ways, one, folded into an omelette with feta and onion, which was good, and another, better way, sauteed with sausage and white beans over pasta. I highly recommend this recipe, as the weed really brings the dish alive and offsets the heat and sweetness of the sausage. Give it a shot, it's a great springtime meal, hearty, but fresh.

I won't go into great detail with the cooking, but try this. First pick a ton of the weed: like spinach, it wilts down considerably when cooked. Take the leaves only, discard the stems, and wash well. Prepare the sausage, I suggest both hot and sweet italian, and white beans with garlic and a little onion, salted and peppered to taste. Add in the plant only at the last minute, or even wait to toss in when you mix the sausage sauce with the still hot pasta.

Save a little pasta water to add in and give the sauce a little extra reach. Dig in, and wait for the poisonous weed to reach your blood stream.

Just kidding.

Baaaaahhhh Ram Ewe

Now that spring's here, it seems everyone is 'flocking' to the farm. Hahahah! Get it? Cause I'm talking about sheep. And I said flocking. Funny, funny stuff here folks...

Biting wit aside, Truelove Farms is proud to welcome it's newest members: two (prego) Boer goat does, Eva and Annie, named in honor of two other 'ornery old broads, and four three-week-old lambs, Paul, Mick, Joe, and Topper, who I just named this moment after the four members of my favorite band, The Clash. It's ironic, you see, because The Clash were a rockin-ass punk band, and the lambs are just cute little lambs. Get it?

Eva and Annie are due to drop at the end of July, but in the mean time they're getting used to being on leads, snacking on briars, and learning the hysterically painful lessons of the electric fence. The lambs, in the way of all baby animals, are cuteness incarnate. I made a faux-udder for them out of a five gallon pail and four rubber nipples, and they all go to town together, tails wagging for that extra cuteness.

In other farm news, ten tiny pigs are proving to be more destructive than...several larger but less destructive things. Gotta work on the analogies.

Sprung

Here on the farm, spring has arrived in full force. The fields are green again, the trees are budding out, and there's a certain energy in the air. Of course, it's been an uncommonly sweet April so far, making everything seem a little rosier, with warm, fair days far outnumbering the rainy and drab. And, shaking off the winter, we've jumped into the new season with no looking back.

The pigs were the first to get an upgrade, getting moved out into the hickory grove, onto pasture. With a solar charger and some step-in plastic fence poles, setting up an enclosure for the swine was a simple afternoon's work; moving them to it was another story. The first attempt was a disaster, when the pigs refused to cross the concrete bridge spanning the creek. A few days later, in a jerry-rigged trailer clabbered together from a flatbed and a dog kennel, we finally wrangled the hogs (who each are topping 200 lbs. now) over into their new homes. They took to the new space with ease and aplomb, rooting for fallen hickory nuts as if nothing had changed. They're out there now, happy and content, turning up the swampy ground and working to restore what would otherwise be wasted space.

The chickens got a new upgrade in real estate too. They've been growing like weeds, and were well on their way to outgrowing the barn stall they'd been living in. After building two secondary frames of 2x4s and chicken wire to cover the doors at either end, the bay that housed the steers for the winter proved to be a perfect space. The birds now have room to spread out, stretch their wings, and get ready for their eventual lives in the great wide world.

The steers got a new address as well, moving out onto the fresh green pasture behind the house. This is my first real experiment in rotational grazing: the cattle get a few days to eat a section down before being moved on the new grass. Right now, after devouring their first area in a few scant days, they're on section two. In a week or two, they'll have mowed the entire region down, pasture by pasture, and then the fun of trying to get them across the bridge begins.

There have been several new additions to the farm as well. Earlier this week we picked up a small dexter steer named, originally, Dexter. Dexters are a small breed, and Dex is always going to be a slight fellow. He's leggy and fit, sporting a pair of odd conical devil horns; an interesting looking guy overall. He's become fast friends with #1, and relaxed into the eternal spring-time bliss of eating and sleeping.

New pigs have arrived too, ten of them, just pink and spotted mutts, but cute none-the-less. They are smaller than the Tams were when they came, but are bolder, learning the fence in a matter of hours. They have a bit of a mean streak, at least with each other, but they're mellowing as they get used to their new freedom.

Most recent of all, the farm acquired a rooster, a stately Americauna by the name of George. He's a stunning and pleasant bird, and his crow could come straight off a movie soundtrack, so typically rooster-ish is it. Luckily, you can't hear him from the house. The neighbors across the road might not be so lucky...

Hope is the Thing With Feathers

After my stint last week as Debbie Downer, I must say the weather for the last six days has made me thoroughly eat my words. I woke up tuesday to find a clear, warm sky above, and day by day since, the temperatures have crept up into the high sixties and, scarcely believable though it is, the low seventies. Yesterday was without doubt the finest day of this young year so far, and though rain and cloud-cover stand on the horizon, this week has been enough of a shot in the arm to see me through.

Oddly, one of the clearest signs of spring, symbolic of the coming seasons of plenty, have been an abundance of birds, of all sorts. Birds, for me, have always been something of an afterthought: the charisma and kinship of mammals have always drawn more of my attention. Yet increasingly, birds have turned from being the mere background noise of the animal world into the miraculous things they are. When was the lost time you stopped and thought about what it actually means to fly? Yeah, me neither.

If I'm speaking of birds, first perhaps I should talk about the chickens, who are doing quite well.

They are now just three weeks old, but already are growing at a rate that is hard to believe, doubling in size at least. I've given them the entire stall as their brooder room, and they've made good use of the space, trying out their fledgling wings in hopping, awkward flight. The birds have begun to molt, and like teenagers, they look rangy and thin, with long necks and oversize feet. Also like teenagers, they eat quantities of food that would put the pigs to shame. They chirp and preen and make short little bursts of running that always seem to take them right into one of their brooder-mates, bouncing off each other like little feathered projectiles. They pick themselves up, dust themselves off, and go right back to eating.

Outside the barn, the chickens' wild relatives have also turned up in greater numbers. The bluebirds seemed to be the first, darting about the pasture weeks ago. Starlings, obnoxious though they may be, were next, and then the chickadees, who have been here all along, made their presence known with constant calling in the trees by the house. A redwing blackbird came soaring over-head today, mourning doves fly to the newly filled bird-feeder in pairs, and robins have begun to skip about the yard in droves.

Other birds, less obvious, make their presence known as well, for good or bad. A cock pheasant, solitary holdover of the hunting season, managed to dodge a winter's worth of coyotes and hawks, and he came strutting down by the bridge and along the creek yesterday in all his iridescent finery as if the farm belonged to him. A duck was not so lucky. I found its remains in the high field yesterday morning while walking the dog, and though it was newly killed, there was little left to judge just what the bird had been. White feathers with large, hollow quills, a deep breastbone; one of the domestic ducks from a local farm must have been carried off in the night. Even more mysterious, I found an owl pellet today, an even slighter clue. What species the owl was, I've no idea. I've never heard one here and certainly never seen one, but there was the evidence none the less, filled with the tiny bones of the mice and voles who new the owl in a more intimate, more terrible way.

Other birds have spring in their veins as well. At least one woodcock has begun to nest in the scrub thicket in the center of the main field, getting up with a twitter and circling around every time the dog and I approach. Killdeer wheel and call back and forth together all day. At first there were three of them, but now only two seem to be around, a male and female, ready to nest when the grass gets taller.

Most amazingly, I happened to catch the red tails mating the other day. I was walking from my car to the barn and nearly missed it; one hawk alighted in a hickory tree beside the stream, nothing special here where the hawks make their home. But as I watched, the second hawk, the male, ghosted down to land with the first hawk, and in a rustle of feathers that was brief and without ceremony, they coupled, and then flew off to separate trees. Hmmm. Maybe they're on the something...

Everywhere, the farm is coming alive again. Green is slowly seeping back into the fields, almost unnoticeably, and the snow is gone from even the deepest gullies. The bees are coming and going from their hive once more, and along the roadsides daffodils are sprouting from the earth. And the birds, over-head and all around, are taking this opportunity to flaunt their disregard for the dull pull of the earth. The hunters, the lovers, the prey, and the survivors; they all take wing together under the same spring sun.

The Season of Our Discontent

This morning, around eleven, a fox ran through the yard. I was walking to my car through the drizzling rain, and the fox darted up from below the barn. It hugged the barn wall, and shot over the road, while I stood watching. Across the road, the fox stopped, turning in the neighbors yard to look back at me. We locked eyes for a moment, but the wind was biting and the rain was cold. We both were quickly on our way.

The last few days have been those of quiet misery here on the farm. It isn't misery of any extravagant sort, just the spoiling misery of early spring discontentment. After a week of unseasonable warmth, the weather shifted last friday, and the oppression of gray and rainy days settled in.

These last weeks, leading up to the returning green, are proving to be the hardest, like the last few yards of a race (or so I would imagine). The barn yard has been tromped into a muddy ruin by the animals, after having at least been dry and walkable last week. Worse still is the pig run; the pigs, bigger now by far than when they first moved into the space, have been in their pen too long. They've torn the ground apart with their rooting, till the whole run looks like a World War I battlefield. They need to be moved to new pasture as soon as possible, but until the ground totally thaws and we stop getting nightly freezes, they're left to trash their current home.

Yet worst of all are the constant hints of spring. The clocks jumped ahead this weekend, but the extra hour of thin gray sunlight is barely distinguishable from all the other hours of thin gray sunlight. Bluebirds are back already, and a pair of plovers have moved into the pasture behind the barn, calling to each other with tinny hawkish cries. Even the chicks, after their rough first week, have grown swiftly and begun to fledge out. Soon, they too will need to move into new quarters.

Mostly, it was the nearly solid week of temperatures in the high fifties that has made this new weather so unpleasant. In that week, I walked the dog daily out in the fields, planning and measuring and thinking about what comes next. I got out and began to shift stones for the walls and even cut back the brush, and there was even sun to do it under. Now, the dog and I are stuck inside, driving each other crazy. We both look up every once in a while, out the window where the rain still falls. And we wait, and wait, and wait...

Learning Curve

Nine PM, saturday night, I received a call from the Waterbury Post Office: there was a box of chicks there with my name on it. The birds weren't supposed to arrive until tuesday morning, but that point was moot. They were here, whether I was ready or not. I was not.

That first night, with the heat lamps and pen in the barn yet unassembled, the chicks came into the house with me. I settled on two plastic clothes hampers for temporary quarters, under a reading lamp appropriated for what heat it could give. I cranked the thermometer up to around 75, unbearable for me, but not even warm enough for the infant birds. It was past ten by the time I was ready to open the chirping box and see the fluffy cargo.

Inside, crowded together, were 101 day old chicks of various colors, representing perhaps half a dozen brown-egg laying breeds. There were Rhode Island Reds, Black Australorps, and breeds I won't be able to identify till they're older. All were equally cute.

It's almost impossible to avoid hyperbole when describing the cuteness of a baby chick. They are built as if with the specific intent to tug on the heart strings, so small, so innocent, so...cute. Few other words fit so perfectly. They trundle around, peeping, taking tentative steps, preening their downy fuzz. As I gently transfered the chicks from the cardboard box to the hampers, it was as if I was dipping my hands into huddled life itself, coming up with soft handfuls of sweetness and light. It was tough to not melt right away.

I'll interject to say the birds, despite being shipped across country from Iowa in a cardboard box, in late February, arrived in good health. I'll give due credit to the McMurray Hatchery for fine chicks (though I'd no basis for comparison) and an expertise that brought the birds swiftly and safely to me. I'll use them again.

After a night of constant chirping that no doubt drove Blitz crazy, I woke early to set up a more permenant home for the chicks in a barn stall that I'd begun to turn into a brooder room. I'd read extensively about just how to keep the newborns, about the temperature needed, about food, water, space, and about just how fragile the little chickens were, vulnerable to drafts and dampness of any sort. I'd read that keeping them close was fine for the first few days, better than having them spread out over a larger area, and so I hung the heat lamps over a large rubber trough, which I'd bottomed with layers of hay and pine shavings. I filled a tray with feed, and placed the waterer in the center, and after a few hours of leaving the heat lamps on, I used a thermometer to make sure the temperature was right for the birds. I moved the birds first back into their traveling box, then down into the barn, and slowly placed them into their new home, taking time to dip their beaks into the food and water, so they knew where it was. They were a little crowded when they all were unloaded, but they seemed warm, and were finding their food fine. They seemed perfectly ok, and I checked in on them constantly through the day and into the evening.

This should be a fluff piece about getting chicks for the farm, about how cute they are, about how having birds is great. But this post isn't about that. It's about how the next morning, I came out to the barn and found 18 of the chicks dead, crowded into their waterer, and once wet, unable to make it through the night. 18 was a lot, and as I slowly gathered them from out of the water trough, one by one, the count seemed to never end. Wet, limp, they seemed even more frail, even more slight than they did when they were fluffy and alive. Two other chicks seemed destined to die, weak, damp, listless. I left them in with their sisters, and hoped for the best.

The chicks died because I didn't know what I was doing. The space I'd provided the chicks was not enough for them, and now, in hindsight, that's very clear. In the grand scheme of things, 18 dead chicks out of 101 might not be so uncommon, and in comparison to the thousands of chicks and chickens that die or are killed every day, my tragedy was trivial. But it stung. I had been entrusted with this chirping mass of innocence and naivete, and within 48 hours I'd let the birds down. It was a taste of something that I'll have to get used to as a farmer. It's a feeling I'll no doubt have when I kill a pig or send a steer to slaughter. But this was different; this was a mistake.

When you're dealing with living things, when you take that resposibility upon yourself to raise them, when you only have secondhand experience at best, the learning curve can be very sharp. Those 18 dead chicks are a taste of failure, a taste of what I'll have to face up to again, if I really expect to do what I'm doing. It hurt, more than you'd think given the tiny stature of the victims, but there was little to do. I tried to focus on fixing things, pushing forward.

I built a new space for the chicks, a frame made of tall plywood, with ample room for movement. I bought a third heat lamp, paranoid about keeping the chicks warm in what's turning out to be a bitter early March. By early afternoon Monday, the chicks were in yet another new home, and this one finally seemed a proper fit. One night passed, with no deaths, and the two chicks who seemed on death's door began to perk up, though even now one seems to be less fit than its fellows. Relief began to fill me, and I began to feel good. The next morning, though, one chick was dead. One chick, I told myself was not bad, comparatively. It really wasn't. I don't know why that chick died, it could have been anything, since the body was dry, and the crop was full of feed. Though I was responsible in the bigger picture, it wasn't my fault. In the days since, I haven't lost a bird, but I know I could at any moment. It's something I'll need to get used to, this occasional loss, this sense of having let down something blameless.

There's a learning curve there, a sharp one, and one I'm just now skidding into. I keep my hands on the wheel, and my fingers crossed.

(The Last) Year of the Tiger

Tomorrow is the Chinese New Year, the beginning of the Year of the Tiger in the cyclical 12-year Chinese Zodiac. In the bitterest of ironies, it will, almost certainly, be the last Year of the Tiger during which real, live, tigers still stalk the dwindling wild places of the world. And the Chinese themselves will be to blame.

There are, at last estimation, approximately 3,200 wild tigers of various species still abroad in the world, mostly in India, though some still hang on in Siberia and Indochina. They are, everywhere, a waning beast, moving inexorably towards extinction, like so many living things on this planet. Yet unlike the snail darter or the Wyoming toad, endangered in their own right, the tiger has always held men under a spell.

Lithe, deadly, proud, painted in the colors of a sunset through the trees: the tiger is perhaps most charismatic of charismatic mega-fauna, most beautiful and entrancing of all animals. Few other creatures have the ability to create such frisson in the hearts of man, to both entrance and terrify in equal measure. The tiger is the living embodiment of the wild, of the power, danger, grandeur, and grace that nature can bring forth.

And the Chinese, almost single handedly, are well into the process of wiping them out.

Colonial guilt throws up its own caveats, of course, about how the British in imperial India slaughtered countless tigers themselves, or about how white hunters had long massacred the big cats for the sheer 'sport' of it. This is true. Habitat loss is another nail in tiger's coffin as well, as human populations in India and southeast Asia continue to swell. But today's single biggest threat to the tiger comes from China, and the twisted and ignorant tastes of the Chinese people.

Chinese 'cultural' medicine places great value on the bones and various parts of tigers, as well as those of other animals. 'Bone wine', rice wine laced with powdered tiger bone, is held in high esteem as a curative, and tiger penis has a reputation as an aphrodisiac. The crass nouveau riche of Chinese society also take great pride in displaying tiger skin rugs, which they view as garish ways of showing how far they've come from the peasant dirt-farmers they were, but a generation past. The hungers, both literal and figurative, of the Chinese not only propel the global black market for wild tiger parts, but create it entirely.

Yet there aren't even enough wild tigers left to sate the greed of the Chinese, and so they have turned to 'farming' tigers, a practice as reprehensible and blasphemous as it sounds. To take the very synthesis of the wild and cage it is bad enough; to do so for the express purpose of superstitious consumption is as close to a sin as one can get. The following article in the Times offers a perfectly brutal snapshot of the practice: http://www.nytimes.com/2010/02/13/world/asia/13tiger.html?ref=world

To say I'm sickened by the circumstances is an understatement. The cynical realist in me understands with dread clarity that poachers will erase tigers entirely from the wild before the Chinese Zodiac again comes full circle. And yet I'd almost rather have tigers extinct than to have them linger on as a mistreated and farmed species, bred and eaten to please the backwards traditions of the misbegotten Chinese race. I'm exhausted from caring, exhausted by my own powerlessness, exhausted from being limp-wristedly politically correct with regards to the Chinese, who deserve nothing but contempt for any number of reasons, this being only chief among them. I'm depressed by the thought of a world where Blake's fearful symmetry has no natural expression. I'd happily trade a million Chinese for the life of a single wild tiger, burning so brightly in the forests of the night and of the imagination. If that sounds inexcusably misanthropic, racist even, I don't care any more. The fiercest, most striking, most exquisite wild thing in the world is being snuffed out, and if you aren't as filled with righteous anger by that as I am, then I've no respect for your opinions anyways.

So here we are, on the eve of the Year of the Tiger, the last till 2022, a year in which tigers will almost certainly be relegated to zoos and farms, kept for the amusement and superstitious hungers of mankind. In the streets of Beijing, Shanghai, and Guangzhou I'm sure they'll be dancing and drunk on rice wine. Me, I don't see anything worth celebrating. This is not a happy New Year.

The Shape of Things to Come?

Over the past few weeks, every news outlet in the country has been covering the devastation wrought by the recent earthquake in Haiti, and without fail, every piece of coverage I've seen has referred to the events as tragic. I'm not so sure about those semantics. The earthquake was many things: terrible, unfortunate, and disturbingly located in a nation seemingly made for heartbreak. But tragic? I tend to think of tragedy as a distinctly human creation, one equal parts hubris, pain, and irony. Shakespearean tragedy, the gold standard by which all tragic elements in the western mind are measured, is centered around the choices made by mankind and the folly of an imperfect race. An earthquake is a cataclysmic event, surely, but it's also a natural act. As much as that jackass Pat Robertson might like to believe the earthquake was brought about as a result of human wickedness, it reality it was the inexorable grinding of an indifferent earth that caused the havoc. It was awful, yes, but unlike true tragedy, it was also somewhat inevitable. The Haitian earthquake was horrific, but it was not tragic.

But what is going to happen to the county will be tragic.

Im talking about the months and years to come, and what I see happening to the people of Haiti. At the moment, aid workers and supplies are flooding into the small island nation, and, despite massive upheavals, some relief is being distributed. But the real question is for how long this foreign aid will go on? Consider the state of the Haitian situation, even before the quake.

The country was gripped by poverty, wracked by political corruption, and subject, for almost it's entire existence, to the whims of foreign powers. Colonialism is a subject in and of itself, but to shorten the tale, Haiti, in the days leading up to the quake, was in a poor and ultimately doomed position. The country lacked infrastructure, both economically and agriculturally, and already relied heavily on foreign largess. As well as having under-supported agricultural institutions (thanks to subsidies, US farmers could undersell local Haitian producers of basic staples), Haiti also bore the scars of a ravaged ecology. Look at the following photo:

To the right are the still partially forested hills of the Dominican Republic, and to the left are the barren slopes of what once was Haitian forest. Years of unregulated cutting for firewood and charcoal have left the countryside a desolate mess in many if not most places. Add on top of this a people largely illiterate, uneducated, and striated by deep and purposely maintained class divides, and all the spirit and determination in the world can do little in the face of disaster.

The true misfortune of the quake was that it's epicenter fell almost on top of the major metropolitan center of Port-au-Prince. In the wake of the earthquake, refugees have been streaming out of the city, returning to already overburdened country towns. As odd as it may seem, cities are actually the most efficient form of human dwelling, under ideal circumstances; resources are both more readily distributed and more effectively dispersed. Yet now, not only are masses of people fleeing the ruins of the city, but those who stay are not able to get access to locally produced supplies at reasonable prices.

Haiti was a powderkeg, and though it was touched off by a natural event, it was made by man, both the colonial powers that pulled the nation's strings and by the Haitian citizens themselves. And now, the fate of Haiti rests almost entirely on the shoulders of the world's industrialized nations. For the moment, people have rallied to the cause, and millions are being spent to get basic food and water to Haiti. But the cynical realist in me wonders how long this can go on.

No nation has any real vested interest in Haiti, save perhaps a sense of guilt, compassion, or a fear of a destabilized western hemisphere nation. None of these reasons can or will hold up in the long term. Haiti has nothing to offer the outside world, save maybe mangos, and the sad truth is, the UN, the US, and the powers of the world will slowly begin to grow weary of constant aid, and turn away. No one would like to admit it, but it will happen. Because Haiti can't be rebuilt; it would need to be built anew, almost entirely from the ground up. Right now, there are governments that seem committed to the effort, but what about in a year, or two, or ten?

Even in the best of circumstances, Haiti would face a difficult path towards any sort of recovery. But when are circumstances ever the best? In reality, Haiti will continue to be subjected to the cruel vagaries of nature. The first serious rainstorm will find hundreds of thousands of people homeless, without even basic protection from the elements. And the next hurricane will bring chaos on a whole new level. Deforestation caused by the Haitians coupled with climactic disturbances caused by global warming, itself a result of the human industry of the global powers, will lead to hurricanes of unprecedented destructive potential in the coming years, as mudslides and sea swells combine to torment an already tormented people.

Haiti is a recipe for what much of the world may someday look like if we continue on our current route. A lack of potable water, few and overburdened agricultural resources, human augmented natural disasters, civil unrest that may lead to civil war or political dissolution...it would all be just so much dystopian fantasy if it weren't happening right now, just a scant hundred miles south of American waters. These are the things of which tragedies are made, these flaws of human nature and choice, and such a tragedy is being writ large on a scale that even Shakespeare's mind would boggle at.

And, I fear, the curtain is only now rising on the first act...

The Gospel of the Lunatic Farmer

This past saturday, I drove up to Worcester for the Massachusetts chapter of the Northeast Organic Farming Association annual conference, and a day long seminar with Joel Salatin. Salatin is something of a guru to many small farmers, aspiring farmers, and foodies alike; he owns and operates Polyface Farm, in the Shenandoah Valley of Virginia. It was Salatin and Polyface that were featured as an alternative model of success in The Omnivore's Dilemma, and since that book's publication, Salatin has slowly moved from cult figure to national hero. He made an appearance in the recent Inconvenient Truth-esque Food, Inc., and chances are, if you've read an article about the local food movement lately, Salatin's name was in it somewhere.

As a fan and student of Salatin, via his several how-to and autobiographical books, I jumped at the chance to actually meet the man, and hopefully learn first hand some of his accumulated wisdom. Because if anyone is getting it right, it's him. He's parlayed what began as a modest and eroded family farm into a small multi-million dollar miracle, all on less land than your average Iowan corn farm. Polyface is no dog and pony show, however, and between the roughly five hundred acre home farm and several leased farms adjacent or nearby, Polyface is dealing with thousands of acres of arable land. Yet unlike that afformentioned Iowan corn farm, Polyface is doing things right.

Salatin focuses on health: the health of the consumer, the health of the animals he raises, and above all the health of the land. Although Polyface raises cattle, pigs, chickens, turkeys, and rabbits, Salatin styles himself a grass farmer. His job, as he sees it, is to insure the continued fertility of the soil, trusting that a grass and soil based form of agriculture is the most sound. And certainly, for the animal, it is. Pasturing animals most closely resembles (if anything can) their natural state, and makes for more contented, healthier livestock. This translates into healthier food for the consumer; leaner, grass-fed beef, salmonella free eggs, and meat free of antibiotics and growth hormones.

But perhaps Salatin's greatest claim to fame is his role as preacher, prophet, and proselytizer of the sustainable food movement. It's fitting to use the religious terminology, because in his zeal Salatin most closely resembles a religious figure. Salatin calls himself a lunatic farmer, in reference not only to his non-traditional farming techniques but also to the half crazed intensity he brings to his work, in both its practice and discussion. He's notoriously outspoken, and his charisma goes a long ways to making his arguments ring true. This charisma was on full display saturday, not only in the seminar, but also in the keynote speech Salatin delivered to the 800 some-odd attendees of the conference. He had a friendly, positive air about him, and his grin and southern twang made his words deceptively jocular, even when railing against the ills of the industrial food system.

But, if Salatin preaches his trade with a religious ferocity, then he too should be examined with the critical eye due all religion. For all the positive aspects of the Polyface model, it is not a perfect system, nor is Salatin an unflawed figure. Some of his scientific and ecological ideas are slightly off the mark, as when discussing the role of the bison in the North American environment. His politics are further to the right than I'd expect, and his belief in laissez-fare capitalism as a positive force seems to ignore the unregulated might of the Monsantos and Cargills of the world. He also seems to have little regard for what is ultimately America's greatest blessing, its tracts of still relatively untouched wilderness. If Salatin is to be believed, these wild forested areas are 'unhealthy' in their own right. He'd see such forests managed and logged, and wilderness lands turned into farmland. I'm all for the balance of environment and sustainable farming, but that was going too far for my taste. The issue of animal welfare also seems to be somewhat secondary at Polyface, although I would still say it's leaps and bounds beyond you average industrial farm. But seventy five broiler hens squashed in a cage on grass is still seventy five broiler hens squashed in a cage. They're much better off than if they were raised industrially, but is 'better' 'best'? It's a sticky question, but one that begs asking, even of someone as seemingly un-besmirch-able as Salatin.

Yet, I will say in Salatin's defense that he's the first person to own up to his own limitation, at least those he acknowledges. While relentlessly espousing the benefits of a grass based beef system, he also freely admitted the limits of sustainability when it came to pork and chicken production. The need to source grain for those aspects of the farm where a limitation and a compromise, but a compromise that the customer demanded. That's the beauty, and potentially the flaw, of Polyface: Salatin at once operates outside the bounds of convention, and yet simultaneously firmly within them.

If all this sounds suspiciously like a negative response, well then I should rephrase myself somewhat. I point out the lapses in logic and imperfections of the Polyface system mainly because I get very wary of anyone given messianic status, even by such a benign movement as the organic food culture. Salatin isn't perfect, of course, but he's the best we've got, by a long shot. He's the man fighting on the front lines against the agro-industrial complex. He has Tyson lobbying to get his free range poultry classified as a bio-terrorist threat, and still he stands up for his methods. He's the man winning over the hearts and minds of consumers, and in our society a dollar's vote is the only vote that counts. Having heard the man, even at an even he was aid to speak at, sound off with such passion and self assured clarity, it was easy to overlook my quibbling complaints and be impressed. Salatin had me sold, not just in a new model of agriculture in general, but that I could be a part of it, that it was a worthwhile cause that I wouldn't have to fight alone.

I'm sure all of us felt that way, listening to him as he gave the keynote speech. I thought to myself how great it would be if he could make the same speech, not to a room of organic devotees, but to the uninitiated, those yet to understand the perils of how we currently eat and live as a society. Then, perhaps, the lunatic farmer would be king, and we'd all be a little better off.

Song Dogs

I woke up last night to a choir of yips and crying, somewhere out in the fields. I was startled at first, unsure where I was, in the sleep addled way of the newly roused. Then, laying there in the darkness, I listened closer. It was coyotes, talking to each other in the night. I couldn't tell how many there were, two at least, and out in the cold moonlight they mewled and whined and sang. It was...unpleasant. I've heard wild wolves howl, and heard coyotes before on numerous occasions, but being pulled out of sleep as I was by the eerie singing was unnerving. It was a cold January night, moonlit, and as I lay there trying to figure out where the coyotes called from, my heart raced. I was thinking about the animals out in the barn, concerned in a vague, unsettling way.

By the time I had fully woken up, I wasn't really worried for the safety of anything; the cows and horses and donkey were all safe, and even the pigs should be big enough to defend themselves, and certainly wouldn't be menaced huddled up together in their shed. But having something out there, even something as relatively harmless as a coyote, made me feel a surge of protective husbandry.

I have been seeing a coyote out in the back field fairly often recently, as it hunts for mice or voles beneath the snow. I've watched it pause and listen the leap, coming up with a small dark bundle that is quickly bolted down. Watching the coyote, I've been filled with conflicted emotions. I'm intrigued by the animal, like I am with most animals, and could just stand there with the binoculars for what seems like hours. But another part of me, a part that I sort of hate to admit, wants to go get the rifle.

I don't have a bloodlust, or an urge to wantonly kill anything, not like I may of had as a single-minded child, but when I see the coyote I feel a need to, I guess the best word would be 'defend' things from the predator. There may not be any danger from the coyote now, but in the spring there will be chickens here, and perhaps someday sheep. And, with the coyotes still here, I will lose some of those animals, to them.

But I haven't gone for the rifle yet, and even when I lose a chicken, I don't intend to. I'm committed to living and letting live. I'll be troubled as much by foxes and by the resident red tails, and I wouldn't dream of killing them. My thoughts on the coyotes shouldn't be any different. I can't decry the treatment of wolves by ranchers out west and simultaneously murder coyotes here; I don't want to be a hypocrite in that way.

But I understand now where the blind hatred that drives 'predator control' comes from. It's not a rational thing, it's primal. I have no reason to despise the coyote, when all it is doing is living as best it can. And logically, I know that, and try to appreciate the coyote for what it is, a cunning, often striking beast. But hatred, fear, aren't logical feelings. Sometimes they're just howls in the night, shivering, lonesome, and hungry.

Cow Pies, Horse Apples, and Other Swine Dining

Here on the farm, I've found myself spending the greater balance of my time wrapped up in the same activities as a new mother: cleaning up poop and preparing food. Far be it from me to disparage the importance of a mother's work, but I have to say that perpetually being knee deep in excrement has swiftly lost its sheen. Particularly in midwinter. Still, I never did expect the life of a farmer to be all beer and skittles...one has to do what one has to do.

And one thing I've ended up doing, unexpected though it might be, is cooking. A lot of the food I've been able to grub of for the pigs has been less than appetizing in its normal form. Raw pumpkin, for instance. Now, when I threw a pumpkin into the pig pen (before they all froze, at least), the pigs would wolf down the innards, but leave the vast majority of the rind gnawed perhaps but uneaten. Cut that self-same gourd up and stew it for half an hour and suddenly the swine go wild, and a snack becomes a meal.

Cooking for more than four little piggies would probably be unfeasible, but for the time being a little more culinary attention has its benefits. Cooked food, more easily digestible, has big caloric payoffs. Bad for you and me, good for fattening up a hog. Plus, I think the pigs just enjoy roasted veggies more than pig pellets. They like squash, and potatoes; asparagus not so much. Which is fine, since their pee smells enough already.

Yet even though I slave away over a hot stove for those porkers, the little ingrates love nothing more than to drop everything and go rooting through fresh horse crap. They hear the sound of the quad driving to the manure pile and they come racing along the fence-line, hell-bent on digging around in the droppings. It's gross, of course, but who am I to judge. I appreciate the help composting.

And so it goes, poop and food, poop and food...a mother's work is never done.

Death of a Decade

I woke up early this morning, and went out to search for a doe I shot yesterday evening. I shot the deer in the last of the day's light, and though we found blood, the deer did not fall before disappearing into the laurel thickets. There was a full moon last night, yet despite that the darkness was too thick, and losing the trail, we gave up for the night and left the doe, dead, dying, or merely grazed, out in the woods. I was bitter about giving up; I'd been hunting with a muzzleloader, but the deer had been close. It should have been a clean kill, on one of the last days of a fruitless hunting season. But instead of a body, I was left with a sense of guilt and a poor night's sleep. Today, waking in the pre-storm, slate gray morning to go search for whatever the coyotes may have left of the doe, I wasn't exactly in a pleasant New Year's mood.

It's one of those auspicious New Years that come every ten years; today is the last day of a decade. It's meaningless, really, an artificial designation on an otherwise uninterrupted timeline. But for us humans, place-markers like decades and years and millennia are vital, and keep us sane. And, as far as decades go, it's been a monumental one.

I don't need to go into the details of the past ten years to conjure up a sense of the changes we've seen. The rise of technology and terrorism, the fall of the glaciers and the ice-caps, the vindication of greed and the loss of privacy...I'm sure it's my mindset today that makes the last ten years seem so gloomy.

But, if nothing else, at least this will be one New Years when nostalgia gives way to hope for the future. It isn't easy, of course; the trends of global warming, fundamentalist violence, and environmental catastrophe will only increase in the coming years. Even so, looking back offers no solace. You simply have to hope that things will improve.

For my part, I'm putting my head down and keeping my fingers crossed. I find my joy in the small world around me, and maybe that's enough. The cows are happy, and so are the pigs, and maybe their own small happiness can be enough to sustain my own. Before venturing out to look for that wounded deer, I fed the animals, my morning, depressing as it was, begun in a cacophony of squeals and moos and braying. My day will end the same way. That's something.

We couldn't find the doe. The trail vanished, hoof-prints running together and disappearing in the leaf litter. Maybe even now her bones lay down out on the forest floor. But even then, the coyotes and the crows will have eaten. I feel bad about it, as I should, but there's nothing to be done but learn from my mistakes. Even now, as I write, the sun's come out, gleaming off the snow that fell all morning. It's a bright afternoon, filled with potential.

And tonight, the first decade of the new millennium ends. Good riddance. Let's start thinking about tomorrow.

The Big Chill

Today is the Winter Solstice, the shortest day of the year in the Northern Hemisphere, and here in Connecticut things are appropriately miserable.

Most of the eastern seaboard got hammered by a pre-Christmas blizzard this past weekend, and even though our area got off light compared to the shore, Old Man Winter is making up for a lack of snow with screaming winds and frigid temperatures. It's sunny out, but the sunshine is thin and brittle, lacking any real warmth. It'll be gone by four thirty, and once more, we'll wait through the long cold night.

This recent spate of brutally cold days has got me thinking again of the climate. Although, with the recent Copenhagen talks keeping NPR abuzz, warming should be foremost in my mind, I find myself thinking instead about the cold. Why, for instance, is Connecticut this cold this time of year?

The answer isn't as obvious as you might think. Our latitude here is roughly 41 degrees North; Litchfield, CT and Rome, Italy, are equally far north, yet I doubt they're shoveling out the Trevi Piazza right now. Why should we here in North America be subjected to ice and snow while Europe (and for that matter, continents inversely just as far south) are left with much more moderate weather?

The factors are many and complicated, I'm sure, but the one that I think of the most, and which seems to make the most sense, I first read about in a book called The Eternal Frontier, written by a scientist named Tim Flannery. The book is an exhaustive and exhausting history of the entire North American continent (penned by an Aussie, no less), from its Pangaean days to it's colonization by proto-Indians and eventually Europeans. One of the key shaping features of North America has always been its climate, and its climate, as espoused by Flannery, has largely been driven by geography.

In its shape, Flannery likens North America to a big 'climatic trumpet'; can you see it? The continent flares at the top and tapers at the bottom, and on either side run mighty mountain chains in the form of the Rockies and the Appalachians. What this shape does is funnel weather north and south with little to no interruption from east-west mountain obstacles. In the winter, cold air from the arctic is free to come surging down through the trumpet's bell, and in the summer, pressure gradients pull warm air up from the trumpet's Mexican mouthpiece. With this wide open geographic arrangement, vast and dramatic annual temperature swings are not only possible, but common place.

Which is why, in six scant months, the temperature here in Connecticut will be balmy and pleasant. Temperature variations of up to 100 degrees within a single year are entirely possible, even here in New England, which doesn't even have the climatic extremes of, say, Montana. Think about that for a minute: it's in the teens outside right now, yet July will bring days when it reaches the nineties. What's truly amazing to me is that the North American ecosystems have all developed to withstand such egregious swings. The flora and fauna of the continent are all adapted to survive both the cold and the heat and humidity, and to go from one to the other in basically the blink of chronological eye. It's all sort of amazing in its brutality and elegance...that anything, from an oak tree to a deer mouse, can live in such a climate.

But today, most of that amazement is lost on me. It's damn cold out, but even in the worst of the weather, I must bundle up and go out into the teeth of the wind to feed and water the animals. The sun will abandon us too soon, and the night will be clear and freezing. I know, in the back of my mind, that spring will come, and all this wind and snow will make the inevitable summer all that much sweeter. But today, sitting inside now and listening to that wind scour the fields, those summer days can't possibly come soon enough...

Where's the Beef? Right Here...

Yesterday, the cows came home.

Two Black Angus steers, about eight and a half months old and seven hundred pounds each, arrived yesterday at the farm, on one of the first truly bitterly cold days of the year. The steers, numbers twenty and one (henceforth known as Black and Jack), came from a small farm in New Hartford. They are good natured beasts, a little timid at first, but gentle and even tempered. Though the weather has been frigid, they spent their first night in the shelter of a newly opened up barn bay. In a day or two, we'll bring them out into the barn yard to meet the horses.

The plan is that Black and Jack will be the front runners of a small herd of beef cattle. I'm not sold on Black Angus as a breed yet, but the two steers are already growing on me. They don't have the personality of pigs, but are easy going and doe-eyed...it's going to be difficult, as it is will be with all the animals, to transition to thinking of the them as 'meat'.

But I will. The steers will have a good life out on the pasture, and they'll never know the miseries of a feed lot or industrial slaughterhouse. Grass fed and hormone free, their beef will be lean and flavorful, healthier than the heavily marbled conventional meat, and more ethically sound. I feel good about that.

In some ways, two head of cattle is not much to speak of compared to some of the large scale operations out there. But for me, 1400 pounds of cow is a pretty big step, and one I'm quite excited about, and proud of. The two steers are out there now, hunkered down in the cold of the Connecticut night. We're all waiting for greener pastures.

Notes from North Carolina

This past weekend, I drove down to Black Mountain, North Carolina, for the 24th Annual Sustainable Agriculture Conference, hosted by the Carolina Farm Stewardship Association. I had the dubious pleasure of apparently being the event's only Yankee, a distinction which was repeatedly made apparent to me.

The conference was hosted at the YMCA Blue Ridge Assembly, a hundred year old bible camp compound of a dozen or so buildings nestled in a crook of the Blue Ridge Mountains. Think: the Overlook Hotel, as designed by Flannery O'Connor. Amidst the mountain laurels and streams, the compound was actually quite striking, in that 'haunted by the ghosts of the damned' kind of way. As for the conference...

On friday, I took a tour of three farms in the Asheville area, East Fork Farm, Hickory Nut Gap Farm (man, I love that name), and the farm at Warren Wilson College. East Fork focused primarily on sheep, a flock of around two hundred Dorper-Katahdin cross, along with pastured chickens and rabbits. The farm was small but well run, and made great use of marginal land, on the steep sides of what the locals would call a 'holler'.

Hickory Nut Gap Farm was a slightly larger operation with a slightly more amusing name. They ran grass-fed cattle, pastured hogs, and turkeys and chickens, sort of similar to what I hope to set up. Warren Wilson's farm was the most impressive, 275 acres of bottomland along the Swannanoa River. They have been in operation for over a century, a working farm staffed largely by students and feeding the campus, and they currently run large herds of grass-fed black angus and pastured pigs, as well raising small grains, corn, and chicken. Of course, they have the added benefit of slave labor in the form of college kids; but then, slave labor is a touchy subject in North Carolina. Still, beautiful farm.

Saturday brought a selection of lectures, one on agro-forestry, one on mobil poultry slaughtering units, and one of small farm marketing strategies. All as exciting as it sounds.

On saturday night, the key-note speech was given by Dr. Tim LaSalle, CEO of the Rodale Institute (give it a google). It was a sobering speech, touching on the litany of sins perpetrated by the industrial agriculture system, everything from Roundup killing frogs to lowered sperm counts in men (did you know Danish organic farmers have the most potent sperm in the world? it's a fact that, try as you might, you can never un-learn...). But the good doctor also gave us cause for hope, in the possibility for mass carbon sequestration in soil farmed and managed organically.

It was during LaSalle's speech that I made an obvious but overlooked connection to my own farm. As he spoke about water absorption and its link to soil carbon, I began to think about how the fields here at Hickory Hurst are still saturated from the summer's rains. Those fields have been hayed for the past thirty years, sometimes twice a year, with no return input of manure or minerals into the soil system. If the ground had been managed properly, instead of pillaged, the soil would be able to absorb the vast majority of all that water, soaking it up like a carbonaceous, micro-organism filled sponge. As it is, the soil is weak and thin, deprived of tons of biomass in the form of hay. The water, as a result, stays on the surface, turning whole swaths of the fields into unworkable morasses. Well, if nothing else, I've finally diagnosed the problem. I hope fixing it won't take another thirty years.

I finished the conference on sunday morning with a wonderful session on pastured poultry. Hosted by Andrew Gunther, a Brit, the lecture really helped crystalize my own ideas about how the poultry operations here on the farm should be arranged (plus, everything sounds smarter with a British accent). I left the conference that cold, bright sunday morning with chickens on my mind, and a newfound determination.

So was the 24 hour round trip worth it all? Certainly, though perhaps only at my stage of the game. As someone starting out, it was invaluable to be able to gather information and first hand expertise before delving in with both feet myself. I learned by seeing farms in operation, and from farmers who themselves have learned lessons the hard way. I met people with similar interests and similar outlooks, and was reassured by farms run on smaller and less developed pieces of land than what I have available. I drank sweet tea as sweet as straight honey, and soaked in the molasses-thick souther accents rolling off farmers' tongues. I mingled with rich landowners, hippie kids, and gray-haired, grizzled, old backwoodsmen. Differences aside they were all there together, with a shared vision. And, for that weekend at least, this Yankee was one of them.

A Raw Deal

Once upon a time, my friend Dave and I attended a farmer's market in Middlebury, Vermont. It was a beautiful morning, and as we made the rounds of the purveyor's booths, we stopped and struck up a conversation with an older woman who was selling a modest selection of preserves. I purchased a jar of cherries, and as Dave began asking more and more questions about the woman's farm, the talk became more cordial. Eventually, with a sideways glance and a sly smile, the woman asked if we liked butter.

If someone were to answer no to that question, they'd be no friend of mine.

And so, responding yes, naturally, we followed the woman over to the back of her station wagon, and there she produced from a cooler a dubious looking lump wrapped in white paper. Keeping the lump hidden and lowering her voice to conspiratorial tones, she proudly told us that what lay before us was real, honest-to-goodness raw butter, churned from the cream of her own cows. And for a price, that raw butter could be ours...

The reason that small farmer's market transaction so resembled a back alley drug deal was because in most of modern America raw milk products have the same legal status as controlled substances. Because of our national paranoia about food safety and our governmental commitment to supporting industrial agriculture at the cost of small farmers, raw milk is either illegal or severely regulated by the FDA. Which, to a certain extent, is ok with me; trying to mass market raw milk by industrial methods would certainly lead to illness. But in trying to protect us from the slovenly nature of agri-business, the federal government is also limiting consumer options and the economic viability of small-scale dairying. The butter Dave and I ate was perfectly safe (as well as quite tasty), and we were able to judge whether or not we wanted to take the risk on based on our opinion of the farmer who sold it to us. It was our choice, as it should have been, and the only real danger was in getting caught by the fuzz.

All this leads me to announce with no small amount of happiness that I've been happily drinking raw milk, legally, for several weeks now. Connecticut, in its infinite wisdom, licenses a number of dairy farms in the state to sell raw milk, at the cost of monthly inspections and a lengthy forms process. I get my milk at March Farms, who have no cows themselves, but retail milk from Stone Wall Dairy, in Cornwall Bridge. I need to be on a reservations list to get my weekly gallon, and the milk is at least twice as expensive as pasturized, store bought brands, but for me, it's completely worth it.

The milk is hormone and antibiotic free, and comes from a local source. Not only am I supporting a local merchant, at March Farms, but I'm also giving my business to one of the long suffering Connecticut dairies. Dairies in Connecticut, and in New England in general, are dropping like flies, as wholesale milk prices are set by the federal government at levels too low for small farms to remain financially solvent. Direct marketing of raw milk, a quality product, is one of the few ways for a dairy farm to stay afloat, and I'm happy to pay a premium to support my neighbors. My grandparents' people were dairy farmers once; I think they would have approved.

Of course, I wouldn't buy a product if it was inferior to what was conventionally available, and luckily, I've found raw milk to be superior to pasteurized milk in almost every way. Although raw milk is whole milk by nature, and so skim milk is out of the equation, I've found the milk to be far less heavy than expected. Although creamy and full bodied, the milk is not sweet or cloying. It has a nice piquant and a pleasant bouquet, perfect for that late night bowl of Cheerios...

The milk is pale yellow, and must be shaken up before drinking, as the cream separates out to the top. It's late fall now, and the cows are no doubt already on hay and winter fodder, but I'm curious what the milk will taste like when spring rolls around and the pastures turn lush. It'll be nice to taste the seasons in my food.

Yesterday, I took my lactose-love to a new level. I had an extra gallon of raw milk, this one a gift, from Rich Farms over on the Southbury-Oxford line (great ice-cream there too, by the way), and using a simple recipe from last Sunday's paper, I attempted home-made cheese for the first time. I heated the milk, and used half a cup of lemon juice as my curdling agent. Although I was dismayed by how much whey is left over, I yielded a not inconsiderable little ball of farmer's cheese, about the density of thick mozzarella. The lemon juice gives the cheese a distinct lemony flavor, which I quite like, especially with tomato and basil, which was my breakfast (and the whey was breakfast for my pigs). Next time I'll use half lemon juice, half cider vinegar, and add peppercorns to the milk while it simmers. For anyone interested, I'll give you the recipe I used:

1 gallon whole milk, 1/2 cup fresh squeezed lemon juice, cheesecloth, colander.

In a heavy-bottomed pot, heat milk over medium-low until heated through. Bump up the heat to med-high, and stir constantly to avoid scalding. When the milk starts to bubble around the edges, turn off heat and stir in lemon juice. The milk with start to separate into curds and whey. Avoid spiders and tuffets. Let sit five minutes. Line a colander with a double layer of cheesecloth, and pour milk in. When the curds are cool, fold the cheesecloth over and lift the cheese out. I tied my cheese to a wooden spoon which I suspended across the mouth of a deeper pot, but you can also tie it to your sink faucet. Give the cheese a few squeezes to make it firm, but keep it PG. Refrigerate, and consume greedily.