Art, Aesthetics, Agriculture?

In case some of you were wondering why a pair of urban intellectuals such as ourselves ever became interested in farming, I have found a wonderful visual aid. The agricultural publication Dairy Today has, for the duration of its time in print, subscribed to the norm in its appearance. Most agricultural publications, or really any “blue collar” interest magazine wears a nondescript face:  In this cover from 2005 we see a very straightforward design. No bells, no whistles. Really no design whatsoever. There are a few choice words on the cover that might, or might not entice you to buy this magazine. If you did want it, your reasoning would be purely cerebral. The image chosen is really what gets me: the dirty cows and insane perspective of filthy face-first bovine really peaks interest in the field of dairying, doesn’t it. I mean, come on! He looks like he’s ready keel over and die in a wasteland of mud and stink. Who’s for ice cream?! This kind of cover represents the standard of farming magazines, and to a large extent, farming in general. Ask the average person what farming is, ask what it looks like, what kind of work it is, and this is what you’ll hear: hard, drudgery, dirty, laborious, and gruelling with little reward. Indeed. And most farmers will tell you that that is not far from reality. There is, in farming, a kind of glorification of a lifestyle of self-induced poverty and satisfaction with the mediocre. I say self-induced because I do not believe that poverty and mediocrity are inherent traits of agriculture. Someone chose the image on Dairy Today, someone chose that typeface and those colours, someone chose to make it look so uninviting you would have to be desperate to want to take any interest in it. Worse still, this magazine’s appearance is either appealing enough or (more likely) totally irrelevant to the farmers who keep the magazine in publication. Ok, fine, maybe the articles are really good and that’s the attraction. But the point here is not the content of the magazine but rather, the content of an image presented of a dying and essential practice. The assumption of this cover is that one would not actively choose to farm unless it was the only option presented to you, or at best, there was some familial link that you take pride in. The point is that farmers are content to think of their profession as lowly. There is no desire to make it attractive, no desire to make it interesting to the average person, who, by the way, cannot live, that is live: breathe, work, play, make art, write songs, save lives, study aerodynamics or medicine, or literature, invent calculus and do all manner of worldly pursuits without farmers and farming. And farmers think of themselves as lowly, mediocre, humble? Can you imagine the panic if farmers were to go on strike? And you thought having to go without fresh episodes of SNL or Lost is rough. How can we ask people in this modern world, who take almost all of their food, sustenance, and means of survival for granted, to take pause and consider where their food came from and how it tastes when the farmers take themselves for granted?

Well, it seems that Dairy Today has caught on:

 Hello, and welcome to the 21st century. Welcome to a world that has the ability to appreciate art and aesthetics, which, by the way, farming has a stake in. Look at this cow! She’s beautiful, she’s got personality, she’s got her tongue in her nose! And check out that typeface and setting. Wow. I love that the dot on the I of Dairy is the dot in the dot com of the website. How very edgy. Hell, I would pick up this magazine regardless of the articles. What do you see in this cover? Whimsy, maybe. There’s something about the baby blue here with the cow and the big Dairy at the top that makes me think ice cream cone. Plainly, this cover is sexy. It plays on eros: our desires. I desire this cow. I desire dairy products. I desire food. I desire to slip off the cover of this magazine and see just what’s inside. And hopefully, just maybe, I desire to look under the skirt of agriculture and see just where and how food is made. I mean, how different is it to ask how babies are made? Everything in agriculture is sexy. Come on, udders? How do you think those udders got so big and full of milk? Well, little Johnny, when a mommy cow and a daddy cow love each other very much. . . you catch my drift? Farming is all about reproduction, regeneration, and recreation. There is such joy in being a party to that process, such joy in being in a position to assist in and engender that process. Farming is not inherently unattractive, it is inherently attractive. This new cover is more telling of what farming actually is than the old one. And why not bring the inherent sexiness of farming into the bright light of day? We’ve been doing it with cooking for a good while now. Hell, my copy of Nigella Lawson’s cookbook Forever Summer depicts the author, beautiful and busty offering up a gorgeous clutch of round, red, ripe tomatoes. Food, not sexy? Huh? If there is an art of cooking and an art of eating, God Almighty, why not an art of farming? Look at that tongue!

And so, I return to my question. Why would a pair of urban intellectuals want to go into farming? It’s self-evident.

For more on Dairy Today's new look and an awesome video of how to art direct a cow, check it out.

Apophatic Farming

The other day I moved a pig waterer. I moved this pig waterer all by myself. Let me elaborate: a pig waterer is a large, pill-shaped barrel with a box of valves that, like a toilet tank, is capable of refilling as it empties to ensure a constantly full tank. However, because swine use this device it takes on a whole new level of nasty that no human-used toilet could possibly hope to achieve. Pigs like to wallow. They like to wallow where there is water because water makes for mud. Pigs go hand and hand with mud. Perhaps the most unfortunate aspect of a pig is its proclivity to relieve itself with reckless abandon and total disregard for the other uses of an area. You see where I'm going with this? If you've never smelled swine urine before, try soaking a loaf of mouldy bread in ammonia and spreading Roquefort all over it. Let it sit and continue to funcktify outdoors for several weeks, and you start get the idea. And, of course, to top it off, somehow a large quantity of wallow slop managed to find its way into this waterer, making it absurdly heavy. So, there I am, standing in a pig wallow, holding my breath away from the ammonia that so wants to burn my lungs, contemplating why in the hell I am doing this. The pigs already have another waterer in their new field. It functions perfectly. It satisfies their needs. Why, oh why, am I here? And thus, I ponder all the oddities, and shall we say, idiosyncracity of this farm. A few days prior to this messy situation, I had a kind of breakdown of frustration. In that moment, I felt like all the things I have thus-far learned in my time here, the list of what not to do towered over all other knowledge gained. I was frustrated by my feeling that the whole operation seemed to magically run on nothing more than a wing and a prayer. Yes, I was having an emotional freak-out, but I knew there was truth in my feelings. Don't mistake me: what the Ager's have done is amazing; they run a sound, ethical, and functional business, but  organisation and systemisation of regular tasks is much needed. I often find myself walking around being very critical of my surroundings, which is not a healthy or happy place to be.

I have found among farmers, as well as business owners in general, there is limited incentive to change as long as what's in place works, however inefficiently. Please, don't misunderstand; this is not an attack on the farm or it's infrastructure. I remind myself that this is not my farm. By this, I mean that I do not pass judgement on the Ager's operation. I still have a lot to learn; what they are doing works for them and there are many lessons in their experience. Every farmer finds for themselves the ways that work for the particular circumstances on their farm. That is, in essence, what farming is all about. But one of these lessons is a lesson I am teaching myself. These moments of frustration are serving as a frame for creating my own philosophy and attitude towards farming.

Every day, I find myself gravitating towards an attitude of farming akin to that of Masanobu Fukuoka, what he calls the "do nothing" way of farming. The idea is the observation of natural systems as the text by which a farmer learns to create and nurture these systems so that nature does most of the work. Such a framework can take so much of the "drudgery" out of farming. One thing I am learning from my frustration, as well as from readings (both historical and current) and conversations among other farmers, is that the reputation for drudgery that farming has is the result of a lack of innovative thinking, observation, and implementation of self-sustaining systems. In short, the prevailing attitude of many farmers is that if it works, do it, and don't change it. I say different. I say always try to make it better, make it easier, make less work for yourself, make the land more healthy, more productive. Some farmers would say that there's a line between practicality and idealism in farming. I also disagree. I believe that the two can go hand and hand. In order for a system to be ideal, it also has to be practical. There are ways to do this and it is imperative as a new generation of farmers that we do do this. We must make the innovation of self-sustaining systems a priority. It is no wonder that no one wants to farm. We are so culturally blessed in this era; life presents so many amazing opportunities: time for art, travel, and leisure. If we are to continue to have good food in future generations, we must allow the farmers time and space for pleasure. The only way to do this is to cease the "micromanaging" of our food-systems, from on the molecular level of industrial farming all the way to the most organic and sustainable of farms. I want to work to find the ways that are easy, but no less effective. They are there.

So, after a few minutes contemplation and the surrender to the fact that "this is not my farm" I heaved the pig waterer out of the wallow, emptied it of sludge, and with every muscle in my body lifted it three feet in the air onto the truck bed and, with a pleased sense of accomplishment, drove it to the new pig field, where I couldn't hook it up because there is no system for hooking up waterers. Each one has a different set of hoses, joints, and valves that is a new lesson in plumbing every time one is set up. And there I was, again frustrated, but ready to learn.

As with so many things that have been worthwhile in my life, there is a certain love-hate relationship that develops. This farm is no exception, which is encouraging. I think the part I hate is the part that pushes me, and what I love is the feeling of when I push through. I get frustrated, then I put on my big-girl-panties and do it anyway. I think this is one of the best lessons of what farming is, no matter how many systems you have, no matter how easy and productive you could possibly make it, there is a push and a pull, a love and a hate, a mix of frustration and ease. It is a whole new kind of job satisfaction. Here, I am learning, for me, what farming is through what, for me, farming is not.

Pigs are Drama Queens

It has occurred to me recently, that of all the things that happen on this farm, the pigs seem to attract the most attention. Rarely do we ever discus how the cows did something crazy, or how the sheep kept us busy chasing them for hours. No, it’s all about the pigs. Pigs are prima-donnas. A case in point: yesterday evening, after a long day of fence-work, Kirley and I went to move the pigs. Sadly, a young pig had died in the back of one of the pig-houses. Less sad and more disgusting, it had not died recently. It’s crusty, wrinkly skin held what might have been jell-o squishing inside its bloated body. Need I bother to describe the smell? Ikk. Kirley, who was far braver than I (who wanted to go get a shovel and a wheel barrow), borrowed my gloves, grabbed onto its four feet, and carried it through the pig field and tossed it into a ravine. I would like to take this moment to let everyone out there know that Erin Kirley is amazing. After that, the two of us took the evening off early. I tossed my gloves into the washer with lots of bleach, cooked and ate pork ribs (the very recipe below), and thought to myself: it wouldn’t be worth it if they didn’t taste so damn good.

Super Spiced Spare Ribs

I’m a fan of ribs, low-country mustard, high-country tomato, I just love slow cooked meat infused with hot, vinegary flavour. Ribs are wonderful for a July 4th picnic, and are a destination for my husband and his family every summer at Sweatman’s Barbecue in South Carolina. There’s something about the spiciness of ribs that intensifies the summertime; like somehow, the utter embrace of heat on top of heat makes the southern summer more sultry than stifling. But in the cold winter months, I crave a different kind of heat; something deeply warming rather than sweat-inducing. These ribs are my answer to this urge. Note: I’m generally a big proponent of what a marinade can do for meat, but I don’t always have the time. Then again, ribs aren’t exactly a fast-food, but to allow for spontaneity, you can drop the ribs in the marinade for an hour or two before you are ready to cook it, just give it a roast in the marinade alone for the first half-hour of cooking.

For the marinade: 3-4 lbs pork spare ribs 1 cup apple cider or juice (not apple juice that’s more sugar than apple, but the real stuff) 1/2 cup dark molasses 1 tbs chilli powder 3-4 cloves garlic, crushed 1/4 cup apple cider vinegar 2 tsp salt 2 tsp pepper dash of Tabasco, or a couple of slivered hot peppers, if they’re handy

For the braising sauce: 1/4 cup apple cider vinegar 1/4 cup soy sauce 4 tbs of your favourite Worcestershire sauce 4 tbs dark molasses 1 tbs ground ginger 2 tbs ground cinnamon 2 tbs ground dry English mustard 1 tbs chilli powder 1 lemon, plus juice 1 tsp coriander seeds 1 tbs bourbon or whisky (I use Southern Comfort or Maker’s Mark)

Make small incisions on both sides of the ribs and put the bits of crushed garlic inside them. Mix all the other ingredients for the marinade together and rub into the meat. Let sit overnight, or for a couple of hours (see note). Bring meat to room temperature and drop it with all the marinade dregs into your roasting tin. Then mix together all the ingredients for braising sauce, and brush onto both sides of the meat. Roast for about 2 1/2 hours at 350 degrees. If you have more time, turn the temperature down to 250 and give it another hour or so. The longer the meat cooks, the more tender it will be. You could cook it for 6 or 8 hours at around 200 degrees, but despite my inner slow-foodie, practicality rears it’s head. About every 20 to 30 minutes brush meat with the braising sauce. After the first hour of cooking, turn the meat and roast the other side, remembering to faithfully brush this side as well.

Allow to sit for a few minutes before cutting and serving. Serves 4, generously.

December Stuffed Shells

Stuffed shells were a staple of my childhood. I spent many hours helping my mother stuff the gooey, spinachy ricotta mixture into pasta shells. She always covered hers in her amazing, home-made tomato sauce that would infuse itself, after a day or two, into the ribs of the pasta in a way that is still miraculous to me. We would have them year-round, it was an ordinary dish in our house, and yet always a special treat. This take on stuffed shells is quite different, but no less comforting. It's rather heavier, I certainly wouldn't have it in the summer as the rich béchamel evokes a queasiness in just the thought of August heat. Nutmeg is wonderful in anything creamy: it lends the shells a warming, earthy quality that is perfect for a cold, blustery evening. 24 oz fresh Ricotta 1 lb fresh spinach, washed in two changes of salted water 2 eggs 11/2 tsp salt 16 oz large shell pasta 1 1/2 cup whole milk 1 cup heavy cream 1/4 cup butter 1/4 cup flour 1/2 cup grated Parmesan cheese 1/2 cup grated Fontana cheese generous pinch fresh grated nutmeg salt and pepper to taste

Cook the shells in salted water until al dente, about 5 minutes. Mix the ricotta, eggs, and salt in a mixing bowl. Chop and add the spinach and mix well. Set aside and make the béchamel. Melt the butter in a saucepan, add the milk and cream, then whisk in the flour, a little salt, the nutmeg, and the grated cheeses. Allow to bubble gently but not boil. Add more flour or milk to achieve the desired consistency. Your béchamel should not taste floury. Generously stuff each cooked shell with the ricotta mixture and snug up in your 9x9 baking pan. Pour the béchamel over the shells and pop in the oven for 25 to 35 minutes, until golden and bubbling.

Allow to sit for 15 minutes before serving, or make the day before; it's better after it's sat overnight. Serves 4-6.

The Trouble With Pigs

You hear it over and over that pigs are the most intelligent farm animals. People often say pigs are smarter than dogs. Intelligence comes in a lot of varieties, however, and the pig's greatest talent is for stubbornness. Now, I'm not just slandering the species because of my constant frustration with escaping swine, though they have a Houdini-like proclivity for moving through electric fences. The stubbornness of a pig extends even beyond its own best interests. You can open a gate, sixteen feet wide, and the pig will still try to root up and ram through the fence two feet to the right of the gate. It prefers to move in a straight line, obstacles be damned. But unfortunately, even as a member of the species that claims to be wisest of the wise, I can't claim that we are above such singlemindedness. Names and faces have been changed to protect the innocent: Recently Rebecca and I had the opportunity to observe the annual winter meeting of the West Timbuktu (ahem) Farmers Market (WTFM). Several things are wrong to begin with: the member farmers of the market, who govern it, only meet twice a year; the market schedules its meetings on the same day the weekly market occurs, that is to say after a long, hard day of work; and the market has no formal decision-making process other than a show of hands. The result is an agenda with a dozen major points of discussion on it, none of which can possibly be resolved in a single meeting. The attempt to do so without any organizing principle for the meeting leads to three hours and change of meandering discussion, arguing, bickering, and outright misconstrual.

Members of the market divide themselves into old-school and new-school. The old-school marketers tend to be truck farmers who grow a great variety of vegetables in their back yard and go to the market for enjoyment and supplementary income. The new-school are folks, such as the farmers I work for, who derive their entire livelihood from the land. These folks are interested in running the market profitably but fairly. The WTFM has been around for 25 years and was founded by the old-school. They think of the market as a convenient place to make a few bucks on a Saturday. The new-school sees the market as a community forum, a cooperative business venture, and, to some, a platform for social change. The new-school would like to see the market expand gradually but substantially. The old-school is a priori opposed to change.

The new farmers know that, to expand, the market needs a dedicated manager to enforce rules, work with the press to promote the WTFM, and take care of general secretarial duties. In the present arrangement these tasks are handled by member farmers who, during market season, hardly have enough time to tie their shoes. The new-school wants to hire a part-time, passionate young person to book advertisements ("Vine-ripe tomatoes available next week!"), hire performing artists ("Steel String Theory appearing next week at the West Timbuktu Farmers Market!"), and manage the market's general business ("Wow, we really have $1000 left over in the budget!?"). The old-school won't see the logic in this and argues that the only people who would apply would be, like themselves, looking to pick up a few extra bucks on the weekend. Obviously they've never heard of Slow Food, WWOOF (Willing Workers on Organic Farms), the organic or local food movements, or militant veganism. I can think of at least six people, just among my own friends, who might cut off a toe to get a job like this one; forget being paid for it; forget that Asheville is full of underpaid, over-motivated neo-Aquarians

The controversy between new- and old-school is mainly over money. The current fee structure requires member farmers to pay $25 per year in dues. Do the math: that's 7¢ per day, two bucks a month. Day members, who have access to five slots on a first-come, first-served basis, pay $5 per day and stop paying after 6 visits, which means they effectively pay the same as permanent member farmers without getting a reserved space. This allows the market to pay for insurance, about three newspaper ads per season, and six mentions on the local NPR station. The new-school would like to raise the permanent member dues to $50 per year and day member fees to $25 per day with no maximum. Day members make an average of $400 per market day; some make over $1000. That alone justifies the increase in day member fees; they simply haven't kept pace with inflation, and I don't think that they have changed since they were set in the mid-80's. The old-school argues that "no one would come" if the market raised day fees. As for permanent member fees, $50 per year amounts to about $4.00 per month, less than a gallon and a half of gas. The old school argues that the increase is too steep and many people stated that it would be a financial burden on them that might prevent them from taking part in the market. I don't know the economics of their lives, but I do see how much produce they sell on a Saturday.

So, the meeting went on for three hours and nothing was decided. We pigs butted heads and compared snout lengths, but got no closer to the other side of the fence. I may be frustrated with the perspective of the old-school, but the new-school shares no less blame for the lack of progress. These folks badly need to learn the meaning of consensus. The embittered stubbornness over $25 per year is the reason so many old farmers were driven out of business: a complete unwillingness to adapt old ways in order to preserve them.

Rack of Lamb Version 1.0

for the lamb:2 cuts rack of lamb 5 sprigs fresh rosemary 3 cloves crushed garlic 1 shallot, sliced thinly 1/4 cup red wine 1/4 cup olive oil 6 tbs butter best, aged balsamic vinegar

for the potatoes: 1 lb fingerling potatoes 2 sprigs rosemary 4 cloves garlic olive oil salt and pepper to taste

Take the rosemary, crushed garlic, sliced shallot and butter and melt all together in a pan. Allow the aromatic herbs to infuse in the butter and let stand at a low heat for 10-15 minutes. Meanwhile, cut the potatoes into smallish cubes, drizzle with olive oil, and toss in the unpeeled cloves of garlic and rosemary sprigs. Go ahead and pop them in the oven at about 400 degrees. While the potatoes are roasting, dredge the lamb in the now cooled butter mixture until well-coated. Rub lamb with salt and pepper. Pour the rest of the butter mixture into a frying pan, get the pan very, very hot and sear the lamb, no more than about 30 seconds on each side. As soon as you turn off the heat, pour the red wine into the pan to deglaze. Once the potatoes are tender, pull them out of the oven and arrange the lamb on top of the potatoes, make sure to pour in the jus from the pan. Turn the oven done to about 275 degrees and put the lamb and potatoes in the oven and roast for 5 to 10 minutes, for rare to medium-rare meat. Pull the pan out of the oven and allow the meat to rest for 5 minutes. Drizzle a little balsamic on the lamb before serving.

Serves 4 generously.

Death to Turkeys

There are now 38 more dead Turkeys in the world. At 5:30 in the morning, Ross and I pulled on our coats and headed down the hill. We met Kirley and Ty (our fellow farm-workers) dressed in rubber boots; prepared for a messy day. We raised all our hoods, put on gloves and went bird-napping in the before-dawn dark. It is a surreal thing; approaching a flock of Turkeys out in a field, in the dead of night. It felt like doing something illicit, like we should have been wearing balaclavas. The first part of killing pastured Turkeys is catching them. One catches Turkeys by, well, grabbing them, sort of bear-hug style to keep them from flapping and scratching at you. Fortunately, they are more docile at night, though the first one Kirley caught went for her face with its beak. They are both heavy and strong, so sometimes, when I caught one, their sheer weight caused me to drop the beast. I tell you, it took some adrenaline to do it. There were no severe injuries, thankfully. We gently set each bird, individually into the livestock trailer. Only when there were three left did catching them become really difficult. They seemed to realise that their numbers had dwindled dramatically and that those birds that left did not seem to be coming back. We decided to grab all three of them pretty much at once to avoid a showdown, which more or less worked, except I lost my nerve and Kirley had to come grab my solitary, slightly panicked bird. Once we successfully loaded the turkey's we drove about forty minutes to Jamie's buddy Sean's house. He has a really great poultry processing facility in his yard that was completely worth the trip, especially considering that where we normally process is in plain view of where the elementary school children tour around the farm on a daily basis. Sean is an interesting guy. He's tall, lanky, and his hair is balding but for a horseshoe of black ringlets that give him the slight appearance of a Hasidic Jew in carhart overalls. He believes in the most insane conspiracy theories, his wife is a bit of a Jesus-freak (but in a good, not-at-all-scary way), and I later found out that that pistol his five-year-old son, who was running around with his two-year-old sister playing cowboys with, was real. Despite these unnerving characteristics, Sean's a cool guy. He has a couple of Milking Devon's and Jersey's, both heritage breeds. When we got there, Sean was milking the Devon who was red, horned, and bad-tempered. Milking Devons were the first cattle brought to North America by the pilgrims. There's only about 400 left in the world. Sean sees the importance of preserving the genetics of an historical breed, so he raises a few. By the time we finished milking and had a cup of coffee, the scalder was hot enough to begin slaughtering and butchering.

Jamie, our fearless and very experienced leader, started the process. He grabbed a turkey by its feet. It flapped around for a minute. Really, I couldn't help admiring how beautiful they are in this contorted position; arching their back and neck in this lovely "S" shape, wings outstretched. He gently put the bird, head-first into a silver cone and reached in to coax the turkey's fleshy head out the bottom. With a knife I wished were a bit sharper, Jamie found the artery in the bird's neck, just below it's head, and slit it open. Jamie really was a master at this. The bird flapped and struggled minimally, and stayed fairly clean. Kirley went next. She had slaughtered chickens before, but was more intimidated by the turkeys. She wasn't altogether sure of herself, but bravely (and now I think I understand where the turn of phrase comes from) took a stab. Her inexperience showed, as did that of everyone else there who slaughtered except for Jamie. Their cuts were much less precise, which I think did hurt the birds, as well as caused them to struggle a lot more. I use struggle gingerly. It was difficult to tell if the bird was alive or dead when it flapped around (only once actually pulling itself out of the cone, which was difficult to watch). I was sure that it was a "chicken with its head cut off" type of reaction where the nervous system shuts down by erupting violently, but I questioned it, since every time Jamie killed a bird this did not happen nearly as much. I was the only one who chose to refrain from killing. Maybe it was lack of courage, but I rationalised that I wanted to watch, learn, and to try to get my head around the idea of killing and how to do it better. I also reasoned that I lacked access to a sharper knife, which I am sure makes the process less painful for the birds.

The way I understand it, the reason the slitting of thoughts with a sharp knife is the preferred method of slaughter is this: think for a moment if you have you ever been cut with a sharp knife, a really sharp knife. If so, you probably didn't notice right away. You probably saw blood before you ever felt pain. Now, think of a less common injury, that of massive blood loss. Most people who have experienced heavy blood loss describe the sensation as a kind of fading, a swimming in and out of consciousness, or a dreamy, light-headedness. The idea behind slaughtering animals this way is that it is relatively painless and because of blood-loss, death happens quite comfortably for the animal. But the whole time we were killing turkeys, despite these thoughts, I couldn't help but wonder if this concept of "giving death" anthropomorphises these animals too much. Pretty much everything we did to these birds was better, less painful, and certainly less gruesome than what happens to them in nature. I remember going out into the sheep pasture one morning and finding a dead sheep; it's head and shoulder twisted unnaturally and all its internal organs removed. And on another morning, feeding the turkey's one dead, nothing left but bones and feathers in a brown, rotting heap. Another Turkey was sick. It's wing had somehow been broken, and as it steadily became worse, its own kind pecked it and abused it until its head was a bloody, grey mess and Ty finally, mercifully snapped its neck. We are so concerned for the mercy of the animals we eat, much more so than nature ever is. I can't help but wonder if this is another way that we have separated ourselves from nature, or if it is somehow in our nature to be merciful and to not want to cause harm and pain.

So, with those thoughts in my mind, I resigned myself to the process of scalding, plucking, eviscerating, and packaging. In order to pluck a bird easily, you have to heat the skin in water to just the right temperature for just the right amount of time. The machine is kind of like a rotisserie that pushes the bird with a metal plate in and out of the hot water for several minutes. The stink of hot wet dead bird became quite rank after mere minutes. Then, you pick up the hot, wet, dead bird that, mind you dry, already weighs some 40lbs, and wet at least 10 more, and hoist it into the plucker. The plucker is a large, stainless steel barrel lined with rubber, carrot-shaped nubs. When you turn the plucker on, the bird whirls around inside and the nubs serve to pull the feathers out in some mystery of physics I don't understand. It's pretty intense, watching this animal flap about, neck broken, being removed of its feathers. Then we pulled them out onto a table, removed the feet and heads, split open its belly and removed its entrails. I did a lot of this. I think because at this point the animal was becoming food, and I just sort of resonated with it. It was systematic and fascinating. Then the birds were cleaned with cold water, bagged, weighed, labelled, and put in the chest freezer. It was sort of amazing, having something that was alive not half and hour ago now bagged up and in a freezer, utterly changed, even unrecognisable from its original state. The whole process for 38 birds took about eight hours, including an hour lunch break and clean up. I learned all kinds of amazing and miraculous things about bodies and biology. It was such a powerful thing to see a 5 gallon bucket of blood set out for a few hours. It coagulated into a jello-like substance that was thick and dark and beautiful. There were buckets of unusable entrails, heads and feet and lungs, translucent oesophagus's, and bright green bile; yellow, shining intestines all twisting and curving. We bagged up livers and gizzards that were purpley and iridescent. I know, it seems so gross when I say it here in writing, but I can't stress how mesmerisingly beautiful it was to see: like a mystery of creation all laid out plain and vulgar, but no less mysterious.

By the end of the day I wasn't sure if I would ever eat turkey again, mostly due to the smell, but also, in part, due to the fact that my hands had the sensory memory of the soft squish of lungs being dug out of rib cages. We were all bloody, smelly, and exhausted. As we were driving away, I couldn't help but feel like I had been initiated, not only into the farm and the very essence of farming, but also into a shared experience of the rest of the world. In this month's National Geographic, there's an amazing photo of men in Bangladesh slaughtering a cow in the street. It's blood arches in a spray as the beast falls toward the ground, the men assisting in its death. The caption below reads that the slaughter is celebratory, in honour of Id al-Adha, a Muslim holiday in honour of Ibraham's willingness to sacrifice his son, Ishmael, at God's request. The story, though differing in detail between the Judeo-Christian and Islamic versions, is read similarly in all three traditions. It is a story of ultimate devotion to the divine and unwavering supplication to the will of God. It also shows that obedience to God, though it my look grim and painful, is always reconciled with unanticipated mercy (remember, God stops Abraham at just the right moment). For Abraham and Isaac (Ibrahim and Ishmael) the horrible journey towards death, indeed a total willingness to both kill and to die without fear is rewarded with joy and relief in the form of a sheep, willing to die in Isaac's stead. Fundamentally, this story links sacrifice with celebration, death with joy. And so, Ibrahim's life-affirming sacrifice it is celebrated in the Muslim world with, what else but sacrifice. Animals are ritually and publicly slaughtered and shared among the poor.

The take home message is that animal slaughter is old, it is common, it is even elemental to human existence. It was so in the ancient world and is so today. Animals die so that people might live and this natural order is to be celebrated. It is perhaps difficult for us here in the safe, sterile comfort of the Western world to associate violence with happiness, but we must face this unassailable truth: death is life. Imagine for a moment the happiness a family must feel when they acquire a cow, sheep, or goat that they can use perpetually for food. An animal is a perpetual source because it regenerates itself in the cycles of life, birth, and death. This process is jarring to the uninitiated, (yet so many of us here in the US literally worship this process in the form of Jesus). Imagine for a moment the great physical pains of most of the world, both past and present, of just how dirty and foul it can get. We now, in this country, live in a kind of golden bubble. We have the privilege and indeed, luxury of constant and unwavering food supply. So many of us have the privilege of never seeing an animal die (to say nothing of seeing a human being die). So many have the privilege of spending only twenty-percent of our income on food. So many have the privilege of never bloodying our hands, never sullying them in the planting of seeds and harvesting of roots, of never having smelled the stench of dead things. In short, a great many of us have the privilege of never having to get dirty in order to live. But someone else, somewhere does have to get dirty, and too many of us have the privilege to ignore them. It is this division of people, clean and unclean: those who see death and are willing to die just as much as their food is, and those who think that separation from death is the way to life. This division I reject. So, I got to know death a little better through the sacrifice of 38 birds, 38 birds that will be used to celebrate our bounty, that will be used to remind us of how grateful we are, or perhaps, how grateful we should be, and that will remind us that gratitude is the deepest way we are happy.

Shrimp and Grits the Quick and Dirty Way

1 lb fresh local shrimp (NOT frozen), shelled, deveined, head and tails removed (and reserved     for more yummy fish stock later!)2-2 1/2 cups fish stock (chicken stock if that's handier, water only if you must) 1 cup stone ground grits 1/2 cup butter 2 large shallots, chopped finely 1 tsp salt 1 tbs Old Bay Seasoning

salt and pepper to taste

Cook the grits in the hot stock or water until done, about an hour. Meanwhile, melt butter in a large skillet and heat until foaming. Toss in shallots to brown, once browned, add shrimp and the Old Bay and cook until done. Salt the grits and pour into the skillet with the shrimp and seasonings. It's okay if it's a bit liquidy. Cook together for 5 more minutes and serve.

Serves 6 generously.

A Tourist is not Local, or, yet another diatribe about why I hate tourism despite understanding that it is a cash cow

One of the first things I had to do upon arriving at the farm is weed-whack the corn maze. A corn maze is, as many of you know, a cornfield that has been cut either by machine or by chemical into a path, sometimes in a pattern, that tourists run around in for the enjoyment of getting lost for several minutes and then haphazardly finding a way out. In England, there are many such mazes, there called, amusingly, maize mazes, which surely spawn from the old tradition of English garden mazes, usually cut from boxwood or other hedges. They are popular and they are fun. Many historic estates in England still maintain their old mazes or recreate new ones to add an element of enjoyment that is in-line with the history of the specific place. A corn maze, however economical and enjoyable, is fundamentally out of line on a meat-production farm in North Carolina. Our farm has a corn maze primarily to supplement the farm's income. Financially, a corn maze makes sense. If you have one, the tourist will come, they will spend their money.  What could possibly be at all wrong? The farmer makes additional income and the tourist has a good time and a happy memory of a farm and a quaintly pleasing impression of rural life. But it is just that that, an impression, that troubles me. In the case of our farm, and I'm sure many others, the impression the tourist leaves with is a false one. We do not raise corn for food, nor ethanol, nor feed, nor research. Corn is not what we do. Our farm uses the land to raise food. We are, as the former head of the Warren Wilson College Farm, John Pilson once told Ross, grass farmers. We take an abundant resource that is inedible to us, grass, let animals who can digest its nutrients eat it, and harvest that nutrition through the meat of that animal. Little of the land that we are on is suitable for raising grains and vegetables, so we raise the food that the land we are on can easily support.  Yet, the many tourists who visit our farm have no idea that this is at all what we actually do. Many don't even realise we raise animals for food at all. By and large, they come for the corn maze, maybe a few pumpkins, and leave without noticing the freezers of food in the store. The corn maze presents a lie for the sake of a good time and increased income.

A caveat to this argument, though, is that farmers need that increased income. Several times, I have discussed the problem farmers face of making adequate income. Jamie attests, and I think rightly so, that of the vast majority of the interest and the money being made on the local food movement is going to the image of the movement. People buy from Whole Foods and they feel like they've done their part. Restaurants will have three or four local food items on their menus and they attract those concerned for food ethics. Shops open to sell nothing but organic sheets spun from cotton grown in Egypt and woven in Thailand and their patrons feel like they've made a contribution to something ethical. All the while government regulations and big corporate farms try to jump on the bandwagon diluting the language of ethical eating so that "organic" is equivalent to "all-natural" and either means a food as nutritious and untarnished as "grass-finished". As a result, farmers still see very little of the billions of dollars made by Whole Foods and Earth Fare. It's not enough, and neither is a corn maze.

A farm that successfully raises, harvests, and sells its harvest should not ever feel that in order to be economically successful it must go out of its way in terms of skills, labour, and resources for something that ultimately amounts to a waste of time and land for the sake of a tourist who will never buy even one of our steaks, nor encourage others towards ethical farming and eating; who, when the time comes to decide whether to develop or preserve that farm land, will merely shake their heads and say, well, I'm sorry to see the corn maze go, I guess we'll have to find another one somewhere else.

And therein lies the crux of the problem. There is nothing local about a tourist. For a tourist, there is little incentive to look deeper than the initial good time had. Pleasure is just pleasure unless it has meaning attached to it. Carlo Petrini calls it taste: the marriage of pleasure with meaning. Though the smiles of a tourist have value and play their part in a persons life, there are better ways of getting those smiles and good feelings that will benefit a place an more levels than the fiscal and a person on more levels than amusement. I suggest on farm tours where people might learn the fun and amazement of how cows come when called, workshops on cooking with the food grown on the farm, or even prepared picnics for sale with farm food that can be enjoyed on the grounds, farm volunteer days where kids can come and enjoy shovelling manure, making bouquets for the farm store to sell, helping to press apple cider, or counting piglets, where adults can help repair structures and make improvements. By all means, make money: charge for the experience. The point is to serve the farm and get people to cultivate an authentic experience and an authentic relationship with the land that works to get them to appreciate the farm for what it is rather than what it isn't. And by all means, if you grow corn, have a corn maze. The point is to work towards the cultivation of a recurring relationship to the idea of the farm and to the idea of food, if not ours specifically, the importance of those that serve the tourist locally. It is our job, as much as it is our job to raise meat, to help people, to help tourists to see at one individual farm how the farms local to them also serve them and their community. Then, maybe, farmers will be able to make enough money that they can stop doing things that aren't their jobs.

Day-to-Day

So, long time, no write. Yeah, life on a farm; it's busy. It goes like this: get up at 6:30 in a great deal of cold, dress, scrape together some breakfast while listening to NPR, drive down the hill, feed and water horses, pigs, and turkeys, and sheep, do a  lot of different chores and projects, move the cows, finish projects for the day, drive home, shower, cook supper, eat, go to bed by 9ish. The chores and projects have been anything and everything: troubleshooting electric fencing, manning the farm store, weed-whacking the corn maze, cutting pumpkins, weed-whacking the pumpkin patch, moving the turkey house, putting up fencing, loading animals into trailers, driving to the butcher, making deliveries all over Asheville and Hendersonville, packing boxes, putting out trash, making apple cider, cleaning up the cider room, working on making our house habitable and free of wildlife, drafts, and mould, and herding pigs. I would like to take this time to discus herding pigs in more detail. As a rule, one should not not attempt it. My first experience herding these little pinkies landed me crawling miserably through thick labyrinths of multiflora rose where two very crafty little porkers kept retreating despite our very best efforts to get them to move with their buddies into the next field.  Let me tell you, a multiflora rose thicket can get the size of a large truck, and you can't see daylight out the other side. We considered getting our hands on a pneumatic air cannon, or else a couple of paint-ball guns to encourage our two fat friends out, but eventually abandoned our efforts and bush-hogged the field the next day.

On a separate occasion, we attempted to move seven pigs about a mile from one field to another. On the first attempt, they got as far as the gate, turned and ran all the way back. On the second attempt, they got as far as the gate, turned and ran all the way back. Mind you, this is seven pigs verses four adult humans. Very, very ,very gently, very calmly, we managed to get five pigs past the gate and into the pasture, two ran for it. One we abandoned and let him go wee-wee-wee all the way home. The other we cornered and managed to hold her within five feet of the gate. We reached a stalemate. She stood stock still. We stood stock still, slowly, we edged her towards the gate, but always she retreated. We waited, to see if she would go in on her own. We stood and looked at each other for a solid fifteen minutes before she finally decided, on her own terms, that she would join the other pigs in the pasture. Ever heard the idiom "stubborn as a pig"?

We're killing Turkey's at 5:30 tomorrow morning (before any more of them die of their own accord). Mmmmm, death for breakfast. . .

Pig 'n' Peppers

12 Long, sweet peppers, any variety available, so long as hey have enough room to stuff (not bell-peppers)2 cups uncooked rice 4 cups hot, salted water 1 1/2-2 cups pork sausage 2 large shallots 1 small hot-hot pepper 6 oz queso de campo (Mexican farmstead cheese) 1/2 cup molé sauce

Cook rice in the water until a little al dente. Chop shallots and the small hot-hot pepper finely. Place shallots, hot-hot pepper and pork sausage in a large pan and cook until shallots are translucent and the pork is done. Pour the cooked rice into the pan with the sausage. If there's a little cooking water left, that's fine. Cook until the rice is tender, all water has evaporated and everything is well mixed.

Pre-heat the oven to 400ºF. Cut off the tops of the stuffing peppers and remove the seed head. With a small spoon, stuff as much of the pork and rice mixture into the pepper as you can, using the back of the spoon in a circular motion. It's okay if the pepper tears a bit. Just stop if it does and be gentle. Place the stuffed peppers in a roasting tin with a little lard or other handy oil. Cover peppers with the cheese and the molé sauce. Bake for 10-15 minutes, or until the peppers are hot and the cheese bubbles. Serve hot with a few sprigs of cilantro and/or slices of avocado, if available.

Serves 6.

Onion, Fruit of Grace

Onion, fruit of grace,you swell in the garden hidden as the heart of God, but you are not about religion. Onion, frying into all those Os, you are a perfect poet, and you are not about that. Onion, I love you, you sleek, auburn beauty, you break my heart though I know you don't mean to make me cry.

Peeling your paper skin, I cry. Chopping you, I cry. Slicing off your wiry roots, I cry like a penitent at communion, onion. Tasting grace, layer by layer, I eat your sweet heart that burns like the Savior's. The sun crust you pull on while you're still underground,

I've peeled it. Onion, I'm eating God's tears.

Poem: "Onion, Fruit of Grace" by Julia Kasdorf from Eve's Striptease. © University of Pittsburg Press

Fire bad. Tree pretty.

Simple concepts are the limit of our mental processing abilities at the moment. Packing is one thing, but the physical act of moving all one's worldly possessions from one place to another all in one go is, well, insane. I've lived a lot of places, traveled, and moved around, but never before with every, single, blasted thing I own. A teacher once told me that having books is a wonderful thing but a real impediment when one moves. It's true. Also on the list of impediments, I will add underpowered equipment. The 24-foot truck we rented drove like a kitten pulling a tractor. Ross, who drove the thing, bless him, said it was like captaining a ship: if you want to accelerate you have to send a message down to the steam room to tell them to throw more coal on. Thus, a three-and-a-half hour journey took about five. Mountains are big.

Our arrival at the farm was met with massive logistics; logistic gymnastics, really.

1. Find a place to park the truck so that the 2,000 lb. car trailer can come off and be re-attached later
2. Detach the trailer
3. Stop half way through step 2 to remove the car
4. Let the 2,000 lb. car trailer, that is no longer held firmly down by the truck, flip up as you remove the car
5. Remove car
6. Take cat to the farmhouse
7. Build cat cage
8. Discover the tool to build the cat cage is a piece of crap, find a different tool that will work
9. Put cat in cat cage and make sure she has water
10. Unload plants from truck
11. Drive to storage unit
12. Forget to borrow new employer's appliance dolly
13. Rent appliance dolly from Budget truck place, which is two doors down behind The Trophy Club Gentleman's Establishment
14. Arrive at storage unit, and back truck into loading dock
15. Forget what our storage unit number is. Discover all paperwork is in a box. Somewhere.
16. Call storage facility manager to get the unit number
17. Find out we are in the wrong building of the facility and drive truck to other side
18. Find correct unit and bring down truck ramp
19. Align truck ramp with sidewalk
20. Get large dolly onto truck
21. Unload truck into storage unit
22. Unload truck into storage unit
23. Unload truck into storage unit
24. Unload truck into storage unit
25. Unload truck into storage unit
26. Unload truck into storage unit
27. Unload truck into storage unit
28. Give friend directions to storage unit to help, tell him to bring lots of water
29. Order pizza
30. Eat pizza, drink water
31. Repeat steps 21-27
32. Organise contents of storage unit, maximise use of vertical space
33. Organise contents of storage unit, maximise use of vertical space
34. Panic that not everything will fit
35. Take a deep breath and repeat steps 26-27
36. Finish unpacking truck! Cheer loudly.
37. Repack things that have to come back to the farm
38. Clean up
39. Take the amazing kid who helped (David) home and pay him
40. Drive truck back to farm
41. Unload things that need to stay at the farm into cars
42. Align truck with 2,000 lb. car trailer. In the dark. On a hill. Twelve inches away from your new boss's truck.
43. Attach car trailer and secure oh-shit brakes
44. Discover that hi-quality trailer light connection panel is courtesy of Rent-a-Truck Nigeria
45. Decide how we will get back to the farm after the truck is dropped off
46. Drive to rental truck drop-off point
47. Fill out paperwork
48. Drive back to farm
49. Find things we will need for the night
50. Shower
51. Sleep

You've no idea the sub-steps that are in-between. Fire bad. Tree pretty.

Lamburgers

So, since we are here to talk about food, I think there ought to be a few recipes involved. I will henceforth post successful culinary experiences. Measurements are very general here. Really, it's all to taste (as cooking should be). Also, all ingredients are the absolute best quality available, as should be yours.

2 pounds ground lamb 8 oz feta cheese 2 tbs ground cumin seed 1 tbs ground coriander seed 3 tsp sea salt 1 bunch fresh mint 1 large shallot 2 whole eggs, beaten (optional)

1/4 cup whole, plain yogurt

Finely chop the mint and the shallot. Crumble feta into a bowl. Mix all ingredients together (it's fun to squish meat between your fingers!) and form into patties, approx. 1/2 inch thick and 2 inches in diameter. Fry in a large skillet or charcoal grill until done, but still slightly pink inside. Sprinkle with a little chopped mint and drizzle with plain yoghurt. Serve hot alone or with warm pita bread.

Makes about 12 burgers.

Animal, Vegetable, Miracle: the moment when the movement started

Today, I cleaned out my fridge. It was an act, at the time, born of immediate need. I confess, it smelled, it had been slightly neglected. And, of course, fridge cleaning is the great rite of moving. But cleaning the fridge is really a microcosm of the whole event of moving. All kinds of things lurk in the fridge. Many, very obviously, need to leave (the mould-forest growing on the pine nuts) while others are in a kind of limbo (a half empty bottle of barbecue sauce, two-thirds a bottle of mustard). Most I trash, but some grab at my heart. My jar of bouillon made a convincing plea. "I'm just so handy when you haven't made broth lately. Surely you'll want me. It don't ever go bad," the little jar seemed to say. Moving, for me, takes enormous focus as every item I own passes through my hands and must face the question: to trash, or not to trash? In my focus on these life-changing issues, however, I lose, for a moment, the real issue at hand: why am I moving? And not moving just to a new house, town, state, or job, but to the sum total of all these things: I am moving to a new life. Feeling a little shaky about this transition and the general upheaval of my existence, I was invited to, really, the perfect farewell to one life and the open-armed welcome to my new one.

I went to see Barbara Kingsolver speak about her book Animal, Vegetable, Miracle, in which she tells the story of her family's first year eating an entirely local diet. It was really wonderful. I was especially surprised that I knew so many people there. Usually when I go out, I might see one person I know… maybe. Atlanta, after all, is a big place. But this time it was my town; if I didn't know their name, I knew their face: Linda, who runs an amazing Feminist bookstore; Donna, my exceptional high school history teacher; Bob, my chiropractor; Joe, the man who sells me veggies at on of the local farm stands where I shop; my friend Sarah, a student at Emory; and several of the farmers whose produce I enjoy weekly. I was warmed by this incredible interest, not only among the general public, but among people I have known for years. I felt like I was finally in on something. I wasn't an outsider.

And then it dawned on me. I realised how involved in this whole local foods movement I am. I know these people; I share their likes and concerns. We know the same things. We know, as Ms. Kingsolver said tonight; we don't believe, but know that our conventional food production is a "limited-time-only deal." We are worried about that. We are worried because what we eat is more than what we are: it's the very face of the earth and moreover, the means by which we stay on it. It is the thing we use the most, and though we suffer the omnivore's dilemma of infinite choice in what we eat, we have no choice but to eat. But the strange part is, I knew all this before there was a "we."

I knew sitting in my mother's kitchen learning how to cook just by watching, by the pure osmosis of my mother's love in her food. I know this because, though I had my fair share of TV dinners and McDonald's apple pies, that nothing was more beautiful than the soft dimples of pastry laid over cinnamon-coated apples and that nothing on God's green earth beats supper at my mother's kitchen table. I was probably the only child in my pre-school who knew what asparagus looked like as they were coming out of the ground, and one of the few who spent summers eating blackberries off the vine that made my hands purpley-black. I realise now, after being in a room with hundreds of like-minded people, that there was something that had long-ago been born in me, dare I say, quite organically that really and truly is a part of something bigger. I realise now that I'm not towing the line, I'm creating it.

So, when I went home I let go of the canned bouillon. If there's no broth, there's no broth, and there will be something else for supper. I am starting here: in the pull to understand that it's not about what I want, it's about what there is. Ms. Kingsolver, in her experience, found that this practice led her family to a feeling of gratitude, which is not at all about being beholden but is the immense and joyous feeling that comes of having all you need and being happy about it. Cleaning out my fridge became my first act in this new life. Local eating isn't going to be something I work towards, or try to do, or even succeed at. It is going to be my life. I will work, breathe, and, yes, eat, local food.

Manifesto: The Mad Farmer Liberation Front

Love the quick profit, the annual raise,vacation with pay. Want more of everything ready-made. Be afraid to know your neighbors and to die. And you will have a window in your head. Not even your future will be a mystery any more. Your mind will be punched in a card and shut away in a little drawer. When they want you to buy something they will call you. When they want you to die for profit they will let you know.So, friends, every day do something that won't compute. Love the Lord. Love the world. Work for nothing. Take all that you have and be poor. Love someone who does not deserve it. Denounce the government and embrace the flag. Hope to live in that free republic for which it stands. Give your approval to all you cannot understand. Praise ignorance, for what man has not encountered he has not destroyed.

Ask the questions that have no answers. Invest in the millenium. Plant sequoias. Say that your main crop is the forest that you did not plant, that you will not live to harvest. Say that the leaves are harvested when they have rotted into the mold. Call that profit. Prophesy such returns.

Put your faith in the two inches of humus that will build under the trees every thousand years. Listen to carrion - put your ear close, and hear the faint chattering of the songs that are to come. Expect the end of the world. Laugh. Laughter is immeasurable. Be joyful though you have considered all the facts. So long as women do not go cheap for power, please women more than men. Ask yourself: Will this satisfy a woman satisfied to bear a child? Will this disturb the sleep of a woman near to giving birth?

Go with your love to the fields. Lie down in the shade. Rest your head in her lap. Swear allegiance to what is nighest your thoughts. As soon as the generals and the politicos can predict the motions of your mind, lose it. Leave it as a sign to mark the false trail, the way you didn't go. Be like the fox who makes more tracks than necessary, some in the wrong direction. Practice resurrection.

Manifesto: The Mad Farmer Liberation Front" from The Country of Marriage, copyright © 1973 by Wendell Berry, reprinted by permission of Harcourt Brace Jovanovich, Inc.