Saturday, July 24, 2010

Garden fresh goodies

It's always exciting when the fresh veggies start coming in from the garden. But, by this time, I've started getting pretty tired of trying to freeze or can or eat everything before it goes bad.

It started a few weeks ago with the zucchini and cucumbers. I always can a few jars of Mark's favorite pickles. They're dill with a clove of garlic and a little red pepper in the jar. This year, he has ended up with a few more jars than I normally make thanks to a bumper crop.

Mom makes wonderful sweet pickles. I don't even know how many jars she cans. I've got to get the recipe. I haven't made them myself, because it's so darn easy to take them to her when she tells me to bring my cucs over and she'll take care of it.

The same is true for the tomatoes. I canned a few jars when we didn't live next door, but she's a canning maniac. She told me a friend had come to visit recently and asked for some of the tomatoes that Mom had piled on the patio table. Mom said she gave her friend some, but she had been trying to save enough to can. I could not believe my ears. I took a huge bag over there. I've since taken tomatoes to work, given some to my friend, Sue, and I still have a huge pile on my table. (The llama poop is the ticket, people.) Tonight, I'm making a tomato tart for dinner. It's a wonderful recipe Sue gave me a couple of years ago. I'd forgotten about until she reminded me of it this week.

We also grow these beautiful little yellow pear tomatoes. I love them. I've been tossing them on salads for weeks now. And, I just spotted a vine in my rosemary that I think a bird lovingly planted for me. (There's a benefit of a different kind of poop!)

Last year, we had one apple on our apple tree, and a deer ate it. This year, there were several more, and we've managed to get a few before the deer got them all. I think they're a little preoccupied with all the neighbors' soybeans.

Now, I'm watching the peach tree. I don't know what kind it is - except later than most. The peaches are there, but they're not ripe yet. They make the best peach preserves, and I didn't get any of them last year either.

The main problem I have with all this garden goodness is what happens to my refrigerator. There's an overlap period when the shelves get full of leftovers and the crisper gets REALLY full.

It happens when there are still a few cucumbers and zucchini in the crisper, but the corn and tomatoes have also started coming in too. Soon, I have a new crop of stuff growing in there... in the bottom of the crisper and in the leftover containers. It's stuff that I can't exactly recognize. It's gray and squishy and hairy.

I know I shouldn't complain. Any food that magically materializes from the dirt is a blessing. The squishy stuff in the crisper is just...like thorns on roses, right?

Happy gardening, canning, freezing and eating. Enjoy those goodies while you can. Soon we'll all be wishing we could get our hands on a real ripe tomato. Oh, and go clean your nasty refrigerator! I know that mysterious crop doesn't just grow in our fridge ;)

Tuesday, July 6, 2010

Christine reincarnated


This looks like a photo of a normal man on a normal lawn mower. Neither of which would be true. This is a picture of an insane man on a possessed lawn mower.

My husband has been using this old lawn mower as, well, most people might use a four-wheeler or golf cart on a farm. We retired it as the official lawn mower a few years ago, but he has continued to use it for such things as hauling trailer loads of llama poop and mulch around.

Recently the lawn mower began to rebel. Remember that old, horrible movie Christine, about the possessed car? We've decided she's been reincarnated and has returned in the form of our old lawn mower.

It began with the brakes gradually going out. Then, one day my husband cranked Christine up and it took off - self-propelled - head first into a brick retaining wall - with him on it. He came in the house and told me about it, noting that the hood was now bent so it would no longer close.

Next, he decided to strap a tank on the back of her so he could ride around and spray weeds along the fence. He started down the driveway toward the barn. A few minutes later he called me from his cell phone. "Can you bring the Jeep and come get me?" "Where are you?" I asked. "On the driveway," he said. "Why do I need to come get you?" I asked.

Apparently, the drive belt had broken. "It nearly killed me," he said as we hooked Christine up to a tow strap to pull her out of the drive. Once she was out of the way, he got in the Jeep with me and we started back to the house. We got to the incline directly in front of the front door, and he stopped the Jeep and hung his head out the window.

"What are you doing?" I asked. "This is where the belt broke," he said. "I'm looking for parts. I heard them flying everywhere."

My eyes were wide. He hadn't told me that the drive belt had broken about 300 feet up hill from where Christine had came to a stop. "I told you she nearly killed me," he said. "I think I could race NASCAR now."

Two days later, he finished making a series of repairs on her at the barn. Having tested the brakes and replaced the drive belt, he proceeded to drive her back to the house.

I happened to be on the back porch when I heard a it - Wham! "Mark's trying to fix the hood on the lawn mower," I thought. Just as I heard it a second time - Wham! This time, I stopped what I was doing and headed toward the noise. Wham! I heard it a third time. When I spotted Mark, he was standing beside Christine, rubbing his head. "What are you doing?" I asked. "Running into the garage door," he said. "Why?" I asked. "Well, I didn't do it on purpose," he said. Apparently, the brake repair didn't last that long.

The next day, he worked on her some more. He put the parking brake on and left her running long enough to put his tools up. His plan was to use her for yet another chore. But she had other ideas. When he returned, she was driving around the yard, heading toward the dog lot. I didn't even ask how he stopped her.

Finally, he decided to use this to his advantage. He hitched up a trailer full of llama beans and headed for the garden. He left her in gear with the parking brake on, and as planned, she motored forward at just the right pace for him to shovel the manure off.

Since then, they seem to have come to terms with each other again. He's managed to ride her a few times without any major incidents. Personally, I'm staying clear and out of the way. I'm thinking he wore her down, and it's just a matter of time before he pisses her off again!

Tuesday, June 15, 2010

Bare, naked llamas


Llama shearing time has come and gone again for another season. Thank heavens. I look forward to llama shearing as much as my annual OB/GYN exam!

We shear llamas in May. With busy schedules, it takes most of our spare time for the entire month. We've sheared before in April, but we tend to have one last cold snap in April. In years past, I've felt terribly guilty seeing shivering bare, naked llamas in the pasture.

Once you shear a llama you get a pretty good idea of how it's going to react to the process each year. This year was the first year we sheared this llama, and he was good as gold. But, it's not above - or below them - to surprise you with behavior the polar opposite of a previous year.

Last year was a good example. Our tallest female decided that after watching all of her barn mates get sheared in a restraining chute, whether they needed to be restrained or not, she was not having any part of it.

The 300-pound plus darling locked her legs outside the chute and forced us into a conversation that went like this:

"Sharon, we've got to get her to go in the chute."

"Mark, she weighs 350 pounds. It's not like we can lift her up and put her in it."

"Well, push her."

So as I pushed, he pulled, but she refused to budge.

"We're going to shear her right here," I said. Mark looked at me like I'd lost my mind, and considering that she was our eighth llama I might have been close to it.

We spread an old sheet under her. I got a bucket of feed and held it under her face while Mark proceeded to shear. She stood perfectly still and snacked the entire time. She was even polite enough to turn around at the appropriate time for Mark to shear the other side.

That was her routine again this year. Amazing. It would be nice if they were all so accommodating. But there has to be one that lifts the restraining chute completely off the concrete floor. This year, after leaving him half sheared for a few days, we got a sedative from the vet to make the process easier on all of us. We conned Darry, a cycling buddy and real-life medical professional, into being our llamas' personal nurse. The previous attempt at shearing this llama had been so stressful, I contemplated taking the sedative myself but decided the llama probably needed it more. The second half of that shearing went much more smoothly, with just the ever-so-slightest bit of swaying and drooling.

The last problem child also got a sedative. We didn't expect him to be such a light weight. He went down in the grass between the pasture and the basement where we shear. While Darry monitored his vital signs, I called the vet for reassurance that he was going to be OK.

Once she had convinced me that he'd come around sooner rather than later, we rolled him around in the grass and sheared him as best we could. He looks like we sheared him with a weed eater.

So there you have it. The sheer joy of shearing llamas. And, no, I'm not even willing to post a photo of the weed-eater shearing job.

Monday, May 31, 2010

Honey, honey

Apparently, Memorial Day and Labor Day weekends have become the times when we harvest honey. They are times I'm really starting to cherish.

Once we remove the part of the beehives that contains the extra honey, we take it into my parents' basement where we extract and jar it. As we do this, Pop tends to share memories of when he worked bees with his father or some other story from days gone by. We also get to sample the freshest honey ever.

As we insert each rack of honeycomb into the extractor, some of the golden goodness oozes onto the tray where we're working. Each of us takes a turn sticking our fingers into that honey, which otherwise will be washed down the drain, to sample the fresh harvest. The absolute best is when Mom emerges from her kitchen upstairs with warm homemade biscuits to eat with the surgery syrup.

It was interesting this weekend to see the difference in the color of the honey that we harvested compared to the one jar we have remaining from the Labor Day 2009 harvest. Here's the picture - the lighter colored one is the spring harvest.

Unlike chickens, where the breed determines the color of the eggs, the flowers in bloom at the time determine the color of the honey. We have been trying to remember what the bees were working to make this light honey compared to the darker fall harvest.

Spring means they largely gathered pollen from clover and persimmon trees. Last fall, we had planted some buckwheat in front of the hives specifically for the bees. That's what made the fall harvest darker. Some people don't care for the buckwheat honey, but I like it. It's got a stronger taste that is interesting to me.

The extraction process involves removing the top layer of the beehive. This requires encouraging the bees to move downstairs to the lower level of the hive. Usually, this is done by blowing smoke inside the hive with a smoker.

The upper level contains several racks of honey housed within the honeycomb. When we extract it, we use an electric, heated knife to remove the top layer of wax or caps off each side of the honeycomb. The racks are placed vertically inside the extractor. When cranked, like an old-fashioned ice cream maker, the honey flies out of the combs onto the sides of the extractor and slides down into the bottom of it. There's an opening in the bottom with a sliding door that you open to collect the extracted honey into a strainer before jarring it up.

It sounds like a complicated process, but you get into a routine and it goes pretty quickly. Plus, just when I think I've heard every old story Pop has to share, he comes out with another one.

Every time I eat a spoonful of honey, I think about the bees and the harvesting process and our time together. Like Dad, I'm finding the memories make the honey even sweeter.

Sunday, May 23, 2010

Ring-necked pheasants


The call came early one morning this week. We'd been anticipating it - the call that the post office had a package for us.

Hatcheries send ventilated boxes of live chicks all over the country. We'd ordered some baby chicks and ring-necked pheasants.

As I pulled out of the driveway I saw Pop cutting up a cardboard box and putting sheets of it along the edges of the pheasant cage. I rolled down the window.

"So the birds are here, huh, Pop?" I asked.

"The little shits are jumping out of the cage," he yelled back, obviously irritated. It made me chuckle.

"Need some help?" I asked, stepping out of the Jeep.

"The holes in the wire on the sides of this cage are too big," he said, still cutting the pieces of cardboard that wouldn't stay in place. "I've already had to catch two of them. You got some tape?"

"Not in the Jeep, but I can run back to the house," I said.

Pop asked me to run up to his garage instead, which I did, appearing shortly with a roll of duct tape.

We taped the cardboard walls along the side of the cage to prevent any premature disappearing acts. They'll leave anyway, but we'd prefer it be in a few months. Last year we raised about 10-12. Eventually, they out grew their cage and moved in with the chickens. They hung out around here for several weeks on their own accord before disappearing into the woods.

We had a few good laughs about them before they vanished. One of the neighbors, who knew we had them, stopped by one afternoon to tell what an aging neighbor had said.

"I met him right down there at the stop sign and he said, 'I swear I just saw a pheasant right down there at Bill's mailbox,'" the neighbor said with a grin. "He thought he was seeing things until I told him y'all were raising them."

One day, Dad was working on the bee hives with one of the local bee experts, who looked down the road leading to the barn and asked, "Are those pheasants?" Dad said yeah and had a rather lengthy conversation about them and the quail.

Mom took dinner to another neighbor one day and heard this, "I looked out that window yesterday and saw something I'd never seen before. Right there in the yard, was a ring-necked pheasant."

As I look into the cage at these new babies, I hope they'll eventually make their way out into the wild, find last year's birds and we'll hear a lot more of those stories. In fact, I hope that eventually we'll have a lot of pheasant sightings.

But for now, the best we can hope is that the little shits don't figure out they can fly out of the openings above their recently erected cardboard walls.

Wednesday, May 12, 2010

How about them beans


Recently a co-worker asked me what mouse poop looks like. For a brief moment, I paused and thought,
"Why are you asking me this?" Then I realized that I, in fact, know shit.

Seriously, I have a decent amount of knowledge about poop. I not only know what mouse poop looks like, I can identify chicken, cow, llama, rabbit, horse, deer, cat and dog poop.

If you spend much time with llama people, or goat or sheep people, for that matter, you'll probably overhear at least one conversation about poop. We like to talk about it.

By examining poop you can tell all kinds of things. Runny poop can indicate parasites. Normal-looking poop can be examined under a microscope to reveal less obvious parasites. And, there are different types of parasites found in poop.

Llamas poop beans. Think deer poop or Milk Duds. Beans usually hit the ground individually. If they're clumped together like baseballs you either have a llama that needs water or is eating a lot of grass. Color is a determining factor.

Poop is a good addition to compost. Llama poop can also be mixed with water and made into llama bean tea to feed plants or spray on plants to deter deer. That may be true for other types of poop too, but I specialize in llama poop.

Dogs think any kind of poop is a special kind of appetizer.

I have found that shoveling poop is actually pretty good stress relief. I joke that I shovel figurative poop at work and literal poop at home.

I have made my niece a chocolate birthday cake with Milk Duds piled on top and told her it was from the llamas. I thought it was funny. She was not amused.

We've bagged some poop and sold it. Our brand is "Poo-poo-pee-do." Now come on, that's funny.

I once worked a photo shoot that involved exotic birds. I found out that birds lack certain muscles and therefore poop something like every three minutes. They're not ideal creatures for studio photo shoots.

Having realized that I know shit, I withdrew a Post-it Note from my desk and drew my colleague a picture.

"Here," I said. "Here's what mouse poop looks like."

"Hmmm. I was afraid of that," she said, as she walked away mumbling something about the cabinets in her new apartment.

Friday, May 7, 2010

A Canned Ham Camper

On the way to the grocery store one day, I spotted it - a circa 1970 camper. The once shiny white paint is now rather milky, but I had to take a second look at it as I passed by.

It's J. Moore's fault. My friend J. Moore was on a mission a few months ago to find and buy such a camper to serve as lodging for guests visiting her house by the river in South Carolina. During her search, a holiday catalog featured a canned ham-style camper with Christmas lights strung on it. The look reminded me of what she was striving to accomplish. Another friend and I became rather involved in her search. We all went out to look at one on a Friday after work, and we searched Craig's list for the perfect camper with the perfect price. Finally, she found her camper and set it up as her guest house.

So as I passed by that old camper, I began to wonder how I could use such a camper myself. Soon I had convinced my husband to drive back by on Sunday afternoon so he could see it and I could jot down the phone number. I called and told the owner I planned to come back by to have a look.

One day led to another and it was Thursday before I knew it. I still had not been by to peep inside the camper. No sooner had I realized this on my drive home from work than I found myself making a sharp turn onto Grapevine Road. I parked the Jeep and jumped out.

I tiptoed across up to the camper to keep my high heels from sinking into the moist ground. I opened the door and stepped inside. It was OK, but I knew how this would go if we bought this camper. First I'd fix A and it would cost a couple hundred bucks. Then, I'd want to fix B and that would cost $100 and then C. You see where this is going? A money pit.

I was just about back in the Jeep when the owner pulled up. A man, who I'm guessing is in his late 70s, stepped out and we began to chat about the camper and where we used to camp.

"Where you from?" he eventually asked.

"I live across the river," I said.

"Whose your daddy?" he asked.

I told him, but it was only Pop's last name that resonated with him.

I know some people by that name, he said. Often this type of comment leads to Uncle Ace, so I threw it out there to get it on the table. "Oh yeah," he said, adding that he had painted Ace's brother's garage once. Guess who that is.

Knowing my family, the man agreed to sell the camper to me for the lower end of the range we had discussed. Soon, he was asking me about my great uncles and telling me stories about the neighbors who were either my grandfather's or father's friends. I told him where all their kids and grand kids lived.

I glanced at my watch. An hour had passed. I had long since given up on tiptoes, and it was now taking some effort to withdraw the heels of my shoes from the ground. As I pulled my heels upward and out of the ground, I backed into the Jeep.

"There's an auction on Flint Hill Saturday," I yelled as I climbed into the driver's seat. "You should go and catch up with your old buddies...."

The next morning I was telling my Dad about the man and the camper and the lengthy conversation.

My father said, "Well, now I believe his dad was Jake. I think he used to take Uncle Hubert......"

I glanced at my watch.

Monday, May 3, 2010

Write notable

Several weeks ago we got a call from Brandon of the Cascade Highlands of North Carolina and Virginia Tourism Group. He was scoping out potential places to take a group of travel writers who would be visiting the area on a media tour.

Since we didn't know who the writers would be, we tempered our enthusiasm when we heard our llama trek at Divine Llama Vineyards had been selected for the lunch stop. Saturday was the big event.

The crew showed up and we had a nice time. It was humid, and we had a rookie llama on the trek that was a bit too unruly early on. But, we enjoyed our time with the writers, who came here from Alabama, Florida, Georgia, South Carolina, Tennessee and elsewhere in North Carolina.

At the end of the day, Brandon passed along a list of who the guests were, where they were from and so forth. It was probably good not knowing too much about the group prior to the trek. It would have made me nervous, which would have made the llamas nervous. They pick up on a vibe pretty easily.

Since Saturday, I've been online looking at their articles and publications. I'm impressed by how easy going and unpretentious they are considering they write for or have written for Southern Living, The Atlanta Journal Constitution, WinesDownSouth.com; Upstate Lake Living; The Greenville Sun (Tennessee), Palm Beacher, VisitSouth.com; and more. Plus, they've tried their share of wine and food during their travels.

Lunch was purchased from the Carving Board. Today, I called to tell the manager what nice comments we heard about the lunch. He seemed surprised and pleased.

I snapped this photo over the shoulder of Denise Reynolds as she used her food stylist skills to assemble the wildflowers, plate, wine bottles and such together for a pretty picture. And Doc Lawrence of WinesDownSouth.com inspired the new discussion on Bloomtown Acres Facebook page. Doc hiked down the trail chatting about what was going on a MerleFest and singing a Hank Williams Jr. tune. I told him I had hoped to get out to see Zac Brown perform Thursday evening but didn't make it.

So watch the Web and any number of publications for possible articles about Divine Llama Vineyards. And, go to Bloomtown's Facebook page and tell me what wine you think pairs best with Zac Brown Band and Nora Jones.

Tuesday, April 27, 2010

Fowl play

Last fall we noticed we had a surplus of roosters in the coop when the poor hens began to look...uh...stressed.

Now, if you've ever witnessed chicken sex, you know it's not pretty. There's nothing consensual about it. I joke that I know what every hen thinks when she's having sex, "Just once I'd like to have sex without having my face rubbed in the dirt." And, frankly folks, that's as pleasant as it gets. I'll spare you the other details.

When my mother became so offended by this that she refused to come to the chicken coop any more, we tossed all of the roosters but two out of the fenced area around the coop to fend for themselves. Our abundance of roosters became my husband's favorite joke.

When neighbors announced they were expecting a baby, Mark would say, "That kid's going to need a pet. I'll bring you a rooster." When work took a local guy away from home too often, Mark would say, "Your wife would feel safer if she had a rooster. He'd crow if something unusual was happening outside at night. I'll drop one off for you."

When I went to the chicken coop recently, I knew Mark had made one rooster joke too many. I called him from my cell phone.

"Did you notice anything unusual when you let the chickens out of the coop this morning," I asked.

"No," he said. "What is it?"

There before me stood yet another rooster. How did I know he was new? Well, we've never had a white rooster in the bunch. I tossed him a handful of corn and went on my way.

Mark suggested that the new rooster had wondered here from a house that also has chickens about a quarter mile down the road. I thought - and still think - otherwise. Somewhere, we have a couple of neighbors secretly snickering as they try to guess what our reaction was when we first spotted that new rooster - rooster No. 12.

I wish I could provide more details about the newcomer, but he disappeared as mysteriously as he appeared. There's no trail of feathers to suggest fowl - I mean foul - play.

Did he wonder back up the street? Did someone feel guilty and come take the old fellow home? We may never know.

Sunday, April 25, 2010

A weekend of llamas

This was a full weekend of llamas. From traveling to Virginia to deliver two angora goats to a friend and shear her llama, Eubie, to a llama trek on Saturday.

Seeing my friend and Eubie (see previous post - Wrapped up in llama) again was a treat. I had hoped Eubie was as still as sweet as he was a year ago, and he didn't disappoint us. Plus, seeing him adjusted to his new environment was a treat.

Each morning my friend opens to the gate to the pasture and lets Eubie and her nine goats (now 11 - with the two new girls) roam freely over her 150-acre farm. In the evening, they all come home and she goes and closes the gate behind them.

The farm is pretty vertical. Seeing a herd of goats and a llama scale the mountainside beside her house is a treat. It gives you insight into how llamas must look and behave in the wild. Eubie makes climbing the mountain look easy, but it's not above him to leave the goats long enough to stroll by the house in the hopes of scoring a carrot treat.

Although we feared wet weather may cancel our llama trek at Divine Llama Vineyards yesterday, it was a very nice hike. Gretchen and Katie were great guests. We took another male llama from Four Ladies and Me farm with our two boys for the first time. Our alpha male was determined to let the new guy know the rank and file on the crew. Gretchen and Katie tolerated his snorting well.

All three llamas enjoyed wading in the stream as the guests enjoyed their picnic lunch. It's hard to say who enjoys these outings more - the guests, the llamas or us.

Thursday, April 22, 2010

Bob-Bob-White

Maybe it was nostalgia. Maybe it was a second glass of Divine Llama's Cabernet Franc. Regardless of what it was, a little over a year ago, Mark and I sat at the bar here in the kitchen and huddled by this computer. We were ordering chickens, which lead to ordering ring-neck pheasants, which lead to ordering quail.

In the 70s, when temperatures rose in the spring and summer, families in my neighborhood headed outside for hamburger and hot dog dinners, watermelon cuttings and homemade ice cream gatherings. As the adults shot the breeze, kids would amuse themselves with things like catching fireflies, which we called lightnin' bugs. On these occasions you could always hear two bird songs - Whip-or-will, whip-or-will and Bob-bob-white, bob-bob-white.

When we moved home and settled down out on the swing on the screened in porch in the evenings, I was surprised - or disappointed rather - by the lack of those songbirds.

So buying chickens turned to ring-neck pheasants, because they're so darn beautiful, and to quail because I want to hear those songs again. The pheasants were hardy and easy to raise. They quickly transitioned to the chicken coop and then off into the wild. While we haven't seen them here, we have received reports from them down the road at a neighbor's house.

The quail - or Bob Whites - were a whole different story. These babies were only the size of my thumb when they arrived. We quickly learned that they needed a heat lamp to keep the temperature right in order for them to survive and their water had to be set up so they didn't fall in and get wet. These are merciless baby birds who attack and kill each other for merely getting wet.

About 25 of them survived. I've been waiting and longing to hear them sing "bob-bob-white." I stand by their cage and whistle it, but nothing happens.

Mark came into the house the other day and played a sound bite from his cell phone. He'd been over to their cage near the chicken coop late in the evening and captured it for me - two simple little bob-bob-white calls. I was music to my ears. An evening or two later we were out there later than usual and I heard it myself. Mark and I both froze, locked eyes and smiled.

Soon, we'll turn some of them out into the wild, where we hope they can survive and fill these woods up once again with their songs. The others we're going to keep in the cage and see if they'll catch and raise some of their own young. It's just too much work for us. If you think raising a puppy or kitten is tough, try a quail. And, keep listening for it.....bob-bob-white, bob-bob-white...

Wednesday, April 21, 2010

Strange birds

Chickens are strange birds. I never thought you could get attached to a chicken, but I was mistaken.

When the first second-hand chickens arrived on this farm, we named one large rooster who was missing an eye - Popeye. My niece and nephew named the hens. Then a friend's son sold us three silkies. This is a beautiful girlie-looking breed that lay tiny eggs. Since the Silkies were all hens, we named the Marsha, Jan and Cindy. We've had a rooster named Rocky.

We have found it interesting that when friends and neighbors bring children to the farm to see the llamas, they are often more interested in the chickens. Two boys that came to visit, got inside the coop and caught chickens so they could pet them.

Chloe, a friend's daughter, asked me to catch a chicken so she could pet one. The poor child got in trouble at the beach that summer when she was telling family members that she went to a farm where she could pet llamas and chickens. They accused her of lying and her mother had to let them know that Chloe was telling the truth.

My friend's son and my nephew can turn a Silkie upside down and rub its chest until it falls asleep. It is rather amazing to see.

Another friend inherited her hens from a friend who was relocating and could not take them with her. They were raised completely as pets. The eggs are just a bonus.

Currently, we have two roosters that have become my favorites. Their names are Fred and Ricky. They reside in the llama barn in the backyard, away from the chicken coop.

Fred and Ricky stand outside the garage door and wait for their breakfast. If I'm running late or sleeping in, they crow outside the bedroom window to ensure I know they're waiting. When I pull up the driveway in the evenings, they run to greet me and ask for dinner. In the middle of the night, I can hear one of them crow and all the roosters from the neighboring farms can be heard in a distance answering his call.

Fred and Ricky are good pals with our alpha male llama . They snuggle up to him in the winter to stay warm. The male that shares the pasture with the alpha males chases Fred and Ricky. He's just playing. He thinks it's a nice alternative to playing with the other llama. Male llama games often end like those of children - with one one party getting tired of the game and kickin' the other party's butt.

Ricky has even been spotted perching on the alpha male's back a couple of times. Gosh, I wish I could get a good photo of that!

At one time every egg the hens hatched was a rooster. That's when we decided to relocate a few here at the house. We tried several times before we managed to get two roosters to stay here - free range. The problem was when the alpha male llama's companion started playing chase the chickens. One rooster always ran into the woods rather toward the house and under the fence. We're not sure if those roosters got lost, went exploring or became dinner for an opossum, owl or some other wild critter.

Initially, Fred was called Chicken No. 1. As Chicken No. 2 disappeared into the woods, we'd introduce Chicken No. 3 and so forth. I think Ricky was Chicken No. 4 or 5. We received a report that one of the numbered chickens showed up at a neighbor's house down the street.

I was sad when Popeye died. Prior to his death, Popeye Jr. was hatched, who is still alive today. That eased the loss of Popeye Sr. a bit. It was sad when Rocky passed as well as several others. But, when Fred and Ricky go, I admit it....I'm going to need a bereavement day.

Monday, April 19, 2010

Wrapped up in llama

This "skirting table" is covered with fiber - llama fur, if you will - from Eubie. We sheared Eubie about this time last year before shuttling him to his new owner, Norma, a dear friend in Virginia.

For Christmas, I spun yarn from Eubie's fiber and knit it into a shawl for Norma. Although Norma received her Christmas gift late, she bragged on it and has drummed up some business for me.

The fiber on this table is the last of the fiber we sheared off Eubie last year. The idea is that the washed fiber is spread out on the screen so most of the the short cuts and the trash fall through, leaving the good fiber suitable for spinning.

Fiber - from wool to polyester - is measured in microns. Eubie's fiber is pretty darn sweet llama fiber. Sooo soft. I'll soon be busy spinning and knitting it into another cozy wrap. The timing is just about perfect since we'll soon be visiting again for Eubie's annual shearing.

Periodically, people who raise llamas will get a call from someone who has decided to reduce their heard or can't take care of them any longer or something along those lines. We got one of those calls last year about Eubie. Norma had been talking about possibly getting a guard llama for her goats. When we received a call about someone wanting to give away a young male, we checked into it.

There are basically two types of people when it comes to llamas. Those who see them and are immediately captivated by them and those who just don't get the llama thing at all. Those who know llamas can spot a winning personality pretty easily. A winning confirmation for an excellent show llama is a different matter.

When you walk into a pasture and can wrap you arm around a llama's neck, you know you've got a special personality. With male llamas, you need to be sure that they weren't handled too much as cria. If so, they might mistake your for a llama and become difficult to handle.

We took Eubie home, sheared him and kept him about a month before taking him to his new home. He was such a charmer. It was hard to give him away.

So here I am. Getting ready to spin the rest of last year's Eubie fleece and looking forward to seeing Norma and Eubie. I'll try to get a photo of them and the shawl I knit for Norma to share after our visit.

In the meantime, if you know of anyone who needs to find a home for llama, keep the llama rescue in mind. The "Eubies" of the world need and deserve a good home.

Friday, April 16, 2010

No spear to spare

One might not think a few shoots of asparagus emerging from the ground would create much cause for conversation, but in my case recently it has.

About a week ago my friend Sue came over to knit. As we chatted, she said her asparagus was coming up. We had a similar conversation last year, and I had been overcome with asparagus envy. We ordered a few two-year-old roots and planted them in the hopes of having a few homegrown spears this spring.

I had completely forgotten about the asparagus and made a mental note to check on their progress the next day. I have a hard time keeping up with my mental notes so a few more days passed before I saw a Twitter post about asparagus from BlondeChicken. Her post set me in motion.

I went outside and up the hill to see, if by chance, we might have fresh asparagus for dinner. There they were, three or four beautiful asparagus spears. Not even a handful - not a spear to spare - but very exciting considering they had emerged through considerable overgrowth.

My parents once had a nice little crop of asparagus, so I called to see if Mom could answer a few questions. She said she had an article about raising asparagus that she'd share with me. The next day, she handed me a yellowed article she had clipped from the local newspaper in 1996.

I began to chuckle as soon as I glanced at it. The woman, A.-C., who wrote the article has been a colleague of mine for the past two years. When she came to visit a few days later, I showed her the article that my mother had saved for more than a decade. What I didn't show her were the actual asparagus plants. You see, A.-C.'s article addresses the challenges of growing asparagus, including the need to "control the inevitable weeds" (See picture)

Maybe we would have had a bumper crop if we'd been better at weeding, but these few spears had survived among tall thick weeds, which I had attempted to eliminate last year before declaring the weeds could have at it. They were inspiring. If asparagus can survive this, I decided, we should order more.

I Googled "two-year-old asparagus plants" to see if I could find more plants to buy. I found them at Asparagus Gardener in Cookeville, Tenn. Their Web site indicates that the farm also raises angora rabbits.

When I called to place the order, I spoke with a woman whose name I believe is Rose. I mentioned that I also have angora rabbits. The conversation quickly turned from asparagus to rabbits and llamas and sheep and spinning and knitting. When I finished placing my order nearly an hour later, I felt like I had a new friend in Tennessee.

Tomorrow we'll be planting 25 more asparagus plants. Maybe....maybe...I'll even pull a few weeds. Certainly, I'll be having more asparagus conversations with Sue and A.-C. and maybe even Rose and BlondeChicken next spring.

Thursday, April 15, 2010

Egg-stra, Egg-stra...

Yesterday I ordered a "Farm Fresh Eggs For Sale" sign to go at the end of our driveway.

At the moment there are eight dozen eggs in my refrigerator. And, I've already taken a tray of deviled eggs to a pot-luck dinner this week.

Let me put this in perspective. I dream of actually paying the mortgage with income from this farm before I actually reach retirement age, but currently this place is still a small hobby farm.

Mark and I used to watch Martha Stewart with her hen house and talk about how we'd have a few chickens to produce fresh eggs for us if we were ever able to move home to the family farm. Setting up the hen house was one of the first things we did when we made that move. Initially we filled our hen house with hand-me-down hens. Those are hens that a local kid in 4-H wanted to pass off so she could get new chicks.

Last spring, I packed up eggs and took them to a new farmer's market on several Saturdays. Business didn't really cover the cost of my gas into town. I bagged up llama poop and sold it and then took honey too. Eventually, other obligations began to make more sense than carting my eggs off to the farmer's market when the profit margin was low to non-existent.

This was about the same time that we decided to order some new chicks. And these are the girls that are filling my fridge up with eggs right now. I'm fairly certain that as I type, they are in the coop competing to see who can lay the most eggs today. I'm starting to think about the farmer's market again.

This is where I start to sound like the shrimp guy from Forest Gump. We've eaten boiled eggs, scrambled eggs, fritatta, omelets and a host of other egg dishes. If I need to take a dish somewhere, you can bet I'm taking deviled eggs or a pound cake (they require about five eggs).

I recently read an article in Hobby Farm Home magazine about how to freeze eggs to use in baked goods later. I've done that once and suspect I'll be freezing some today.

I've noticed someone down the road is taking orders for fresh sausage. I'm going to place an order today and see if I can exchange some eggs for sausage - or at least a discount. The barter system worked out pretty well with another local farmer.

I've even shared a few eggs with Dave and Laura at Kitchen Roselli. (Much to my surprise, Mark just called to say they'd added a link on their site about yesterday's blog and commented on the very eggs I'm writing about.) I think Dave and the boys have a bit of a competition going over who can make the best omelet in the family.

So Egg-stra, Egg-stra. If you're in the area and want to buy or barter for some farm fresh eggs, just let us know. According to the North Carolina Extension Office, we can sell up to 30 dozen a week without getting official with grading and such. If we get to that point, you'll see a blog about chicken pie, chicken and dumplings, fried chicken....And, please post your egg recipes here.

Wednesday, April 14, 2010

Bees are buzzing

We went to the Yadkin County Beekeepers meeting this week. All the local bee folks are a buzz with how many new hives they're setting up this year, what's blooming and how busy the bees already are.

Our honey customers have been getting concerned about dwindling supplies from last season, so that contributes to our excitement.

Angie Hauser made a nice presentation with materials from N.C. State University that will help local beekeepers respond to "killer bee" questions that fortunately do not arise quite as often among beekeepers as spitting questions do for llama owners. (Yes, we have llamas on this farm too, as well as angora rabbits, chickens, two dogs and a crazy cat.) Put your minds at ease for the moment, there's no official record of killer bees in North Carolina.

I grew up watching my father and grandfather work bees from the safety of our house. After Pa died, Dad quit working with them. A few years ago, he came to the barn at feeding time and said he was thinking about setting up a hive of bees again.

My husband, Mark, and I told him we had some interest in bees too, and a plan was put into action. That was on a Tuesday. When I got home from work the next day, I noticed something that appeared to be a disease on my Japanese maple. A closer look revealed it was a swarm of bees. (Whew! I couldn't believe I had not noticed some kind of plant funk that could have become that large.)

I ran through the yard, as best as a woman can in heels, waving my arms at my husband who was mowing. He finally stopped to see what I was going nuts about this time. Yep, that's not a scene that's all that unusual to him (maybe we'll share more on this later). He came and admired the swarm hanging from the lower limb of this small tree.

I picked up speed again as I ran into the house to call Pop. He didn't have a hive ready, but called a neighbor who did and was willing to sell him one. Mark, Mom and I kept our eyes on the swarm as Pop went to get the hive.

It had been years since I saw someone handle bees. Dad (aka Pop) put a scrap of carpet on the ground under the swarm. Then, he put the hive on it. Using a soft bee brush, he gently brushed the swam downward near the entrance to the hive. Dad identified the queen in short order and told us if she went into the hive, we'd be good to go. In just a few minutes, the bees began to fly into the hive - following that queen. It was pretty amazing to witness.

A couple of hours later, when all the bees were cozy inside their new home, Mark and Dad transported the hive from our front yard to their new location. Dad was very pleased. He did a little jig in the front yard. It was one of those magical, unforgettable farm day memories.



First attempt at blogging. Patience please ;)