Going to Seed

IMG_6770Our back garden is done for this growing season.

Due to the rapidly changing weather and extraordinary neglect on our part, the squash, broccoli, cabbage, cauliflower, herbs, and cucumbers simply became overrun with weeds and started to die off.

One of the many cool things about plants is that, even as they are dying, they continue to produce fruit, flower, and seeds.  I’ve written before about the bizarre produce martyrdom of tomato plants as they brown and wilt and fade, all the while offering a bounty of delicious fruit.

This end-of-life production is, ironically, what keeps the plants life cycle in motion.  This is where we get seeds for next year’s planting.

Now, if we are too busy with the other parts of life to weed the garden, then we are definitely too busy to start figuring out how to collect, treat, and save seeds.  This bums me out because, not only would it be a way to save money next spring, it would also be an amazing thing to be able to continue the cycle without outside help.  We would simply save our seeds and plant them in the spring.

Maybe someday.

IMG_6773In the meantime, there is one seed that’s sort of a no-brainer (read: even I can do it) and that’s coriander.

Almost 20 years ago, I saw a gardener let her cilantro plants go to flower and wait for the plump, little seeds to appear.  She cut them, bundled and bound them, and hung them upside-down.  As the seeds dried out, they would fall into a screened plate she’d put below them.  Voila!  Coriander.

So, that’s my singular nod to seed saving and it helps me to feel better about myself and life in general to do it.

IMG_6551As for everything else in the garden, there really couldn’t be a better edible playground for the chickens, piglets, goats, and bees.  All of these veggies exploding in a sea of flowers surrounded by weeds is about as good as it gets for the farm animals previously prevented from grazing this spot.

Since we have the World’s Fattest Goats, we probably shouldn’t leave them here for too long, but I’ve never really been good at saying no to these lovelies.

IMG_6564Obviously, the bees go wherever they please.

The broccoli flowers seem to hold a particular appeal this autumn.  While there is still an abundance of goldenrod and other wildflowers growing within feet of the hives, this latest arrival would appear to have a stronger pull.

When I snapped this shot, there were hundreds of honeybees feasting upon the surrounding broccoli blossoms.

But best of all are the piglets.

IMG_6733The piglets have started venturing away from their mama in increasingly audacious outings.

Because they are little enough to fit underneath the electric wire in some spots, they have started slipping out throughout the day to see what’s happening elsewhere on the farm.

About three days ago, a small gang of them found a gap under the fence to the back garden.  They have since been visiting the garden three, four, and five times per day, rooting around, and being generally adorable.

IMG_6759A pig learning to be a pig is a glorious and frolicsome affair.

And it involves a great deal of snout mud.

So, before we get out the tiller and turn over the back garden to prepare it for the fall, we will leave it for awhile to the browsing, rooting, scratching, and pollen-collecting of everyone else who lives here.

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Pig Cheese

Bubble’s piglets are thriving.

At a week and a half old, they’ve started to venture more bravely out and away from mama.  They’ve starting rooting gently with their little snouts, nibbling grass, and even drinking a little of the water that trickles down from the stream near their enclosure.

Five unseen piglets being stomped and poked and crushed while trying to have breakfast.

Five unseen piglets being stomped and poked and crushed while trying to have breakfast.

Largely, however, they are within a few feet of Bubble, either nursing or napping all in a heap.

The funny thing about when they nurse is the Stack Factor.  

When there are 12 teats and 11 piglets, there is a spot for everyone at mealtime.  The piglets, however, do not realize that they have access to this information.

So they scramble and and jockey for position to ensure that they get some milk before all the spots are taken.  There is significant squealing, nipping, and  wrestling involved before everyone settles in for a snack.

When the dust settles, at least five piglets are being squashed under the six that have succeeded in scoring a “top” teat.  

Which brings me to pig milk.

As a farmer and a food-service professional, I cannot help but look at Bubble’s teats, heavy with milk, and think, “I wonder what pig milk tastes like?”

And before you make THAT face; think about it.  

It’s the same as my long-held belief that penguin meat would be delicious (I mean, right? Nice layer of fat, precious little sinew…).  Just because humans haven’t integrated an animal or animal products into our diet yet shouldn’t make it unappetizing or unthinkable.

Now, I’m not suggesting we start milking pigs because, quite frankly, god help the poor bastard who tries to milk a pig.  I’m sure we don’t do it because no self-respecting sow would allow that sort of nonsense for a hot second.  I’m just saying, I’m curious about the flavor.

And speaking of flavor…

This past Saturday marked the opening day of Bimi’s Cheese Shop, a venture we embarked upon with two of our closest friends, Chris and Ellen.  We stock all kinds of lovely goodies at Bimi’s; charcuterie and jams, crackers and vinegars, a grilled cheese bar, and, of course, dozens of cheeses from around the world.

We do not have pig cheese.

But we DO have a bucket marked “pig cheese.”

This is for the little bits and pieces that get left on the cutting wires, knives, and boards throughout the day.  Rather than discard rinds and other unusable pieces, we simply fill the little bucket as we go along, knowing that Bubble and Squeak (and increasingly, the piglets) will find these tidbits a welcome addition to their usual treats of stale bread and compost.

Where are your teats, Dad?!?!

We can’t find your teats, Dad!!

Now, we just need to get the babies to stop trying to nurse on Papa.

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Pigging Out

Two days before we went on our annual Vacation On The Beach, our friend Bernie the Pig Farmer and his wife, Amie, stopped by for a visit.  They’d come all the way from New Hampshire, just to have a look at Bubble and see how she was doing.

We were immensely grateful for this because Bernie just knows so gosh darned much about pigs.  We thought for sure he’d be able to tell how soon she’d be pigging out and whether she looked good in every other way.

She didn’t.

Bubble, trying to deliver a ten-pound poohglet

Bubble, trying to deliver a ten-pound poohglet

Bernie looked her over and decided that all was well; until he got to her backside.

“What’s going on there?” he asked, pointing to a large, impacted collection of poop causing her rear to bulge horribly.

“Yeah, that’s been like that for about a week.”

“She hasn’t pooped in a week?”

“No, she has; but then it just goes back to looking like that.  Is that bad?”

“Yeah… that’s nawt good.  We gotta get that outta her.  Get a board and a bucket of warm, soapy water.”


And so we cornered her in the shed, where Bernie unceremoniously removed every last bit of that unwholly agglomeration.

Next, I got to chuck bucketfuls of soapy water at her butt.  

And THEN she was ready to pig out.

But Bernie and Amie felt certain that there was little chance she’d go while we were away.  Judging by her demeanor and her teats, they said, she likely had one to three weeks.  This was wonderful news!  We could go away for our annual Vacation On The Beach and not worry about a) missing the birth or b) not being there to handle any issues that might arise.

What a relief.

We left that Sunday and had prepped our caretakers with all the information we thought they would need to handle the pigs, goats, chickens, and gardens.  We’d stocked up on feed and hay and even posted notes here and there to make the process easier.  After all, these fine folks are also on vacation; animal care should be fun and simple, right?


Bubble and her brood

Bubble and her brood

They awoke Wednesday morning to find 11 pink and healthy piglets and one slightly blue, not so healthy one.

We couldn’t believe it.

Thankfully, our friends handled the situation like the pros that they most certainly aren’t and we didn’t even have to drive back home once.  They managed to separate the dying piglet (an emotionally Herculean task in and of itself), run a length of fencing to separate Squeak from Bubble and the babes, run another length of electric wire because Squeak continued to bust through the fencing, extend the hose for watering, compost the placenta, and, in the middle of it all, discard our long-suffering chicken who finally died after weeks of staring at the wall in the mud room all day.

Meanwhile, we were at the beach.

As a further boon to our particular good luck, Jeff Bush happens to know his way around a camera and, as a result, the rest of this post will be filled with adorable pictures of piglets.  Enjoy!

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Back in December, we put down a deposit on a one-week beach vacation for the end of August.

This will mark the ninth consecutive year that we’ve rented the same house and, every year, friends and family join us for what is always a lovely and memorable time.  The house itself is big enough to comfortably accommodate 10-12 folks.

There will be 17 of us there this year.

This may be pushing it, but this is probably our last time there and, well, we like to push it.

Going on any vacation necessarily means leaving behind our responsibilities for a time.  This is, more or less, the point of going in the first place.  Europeans seem to understand this concept far better than we Americans, but many Americans seem to understand it far better than I.

I have such a hard time leaving.

And it’s not because I don’t want to leave (because I really, really want to leave), but this year is proving even harder that those previous.  While our Brooklyn restaurant is in uber-competent hands, we are only two weeks away from the opening of our newest venture, a cheese and specialty foods shop in Chatham, New York.

Opening a new business of any kind at any time is daunting and exhausting and stressful.  Leaving for a week on the beach immediately prior to opening is straight-up Crazytown.

But the money was spent and the plans were made and the friends are coming and we’re doing it and it’s going to be relaxing if it kills me.


The Perpetually Pregnant Pig

Oh, and did I mention that Bubble the Pig is still pregnant?

Obviously, we were mistaken when we thought that she had conceived back in March, which would have had her pigging out on July 17th.

If you know the exact date of conception, then you know the exact date of birth.  Pig gestation is always three months, three weeks, and three days.

They are like the pound cake of the animal world. (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pound_cake)

But, apparently we were VERY wrong about the date of conception.  As it turns out, pigs don’t get pregnant just because they’ve been porked, as it were.  As with humans, it takes as many tries as it takes.  In Bubble’s case, it took at least a month; perhaps longer.

So, as we start to think about packing our bags, we have to wonder whether there will be piglets born while we’re away and, if so, how our house guests/farm sitters will be able to handle that situation.  We’ve set them up with as much information on the bees, chickens, goats, and gardens as we could, but the enormous x-factor is Bubble and her piglets.

Bubble and Squeak, in the marriage bed

Bubble and Squeak, in the marriage bed

And Squeak.

We were encouraged by Bernie the Pig Farmer to separate the two pigs as Bubble gets closer and closer to pigging out.  The possibility of Squeak trying to mount her and causing a miscarriage of sorts should be avoided.  Also, rumor has it that once the final piglet is born, Squeak will climb mountains to start trying mate with Bubble again (which, in and of itself is like climbing a mountain) and could inadvertently hurt or kill a piglet in the process.

The wire and hog fence depression-maker

The wire and hog fence depression-maker

We separated them with a length of electric wire and another length of hog fencing.

While this successfully kept them separated, it also kept them both utterly despondent.  Our usually smiling and friendly pigs became sullen and brooding.

It was totally depressing.

After four days, we couldn’t take it anymore and we took the fence away.

Now, we just have to hope for the best for the piglets, Bubble, and our house guests that everything works out in a lovely, death-free way.

If you need me, I’ll be on the beach.

Probably worrying.



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I was looking around my Facebook feed the other day and noticed a post by a friend. She had posted Something Awful and was asking folks to sign a petition to help make the Something Awful stop.

These kinds of posts bother me tremendously for two reasons: 1) I cannot stand to see intensely important, awful, and sometimes criminal things pop up when I don’t expect it over my morning coffee, and 2) while I completely see the need to raise awareness about a whole host of issues, I don’t necessarily agree that random Facebook posts are the appropriate forum.

In this spirit, about a minute after the original post went up, one of my friend’s friends responded in the comment field, “Done!”

And this bothered me as well.

It occurred to me that we have become a society, largely through the fault/assistance of social media, that interacts with the world at large by skirting the periphery. This woman read the story (or watched the video, or got the gist of it by scanning the article, etc.) and then took a moment to click some links and fill in some fields to cast her vote against (or perhaps for legislation banning) whatever the Something Awful happened to be.

And then she went on with her life, presumably feeling that she had Done! something that contributed in a meaningful way to the problems of the day.

And maybe she had.

But, I have to say that I’m not sold. I find it difficult to believe that clicking a link on the computer from your kitchen table will stop Something Awful from happening. I truly hope that I am wrong.

But this is not what this post is about.

This post is about what the woman who wrote “Done!” made me realize about my life and my responsibilities lately.

These days have been considerably busier than before (for the record, before was plenty busy). Now, in addition to the farm, we are into year ten of owning a reasonably popular Brooklyn restaurant, year 14 of keeping two children alive, and year one of opening and running a cheese and specialty foods shop in Chatham, New York.

Because getting a new venture up and running is a full-time job on its own, all the other stuff seems to take a back seat. The problem is that there isn’t much on a farm of any size that can take a back seat to anything because a farm is comprised totally of living things.

Since we aren’t (completely) horrible humans, all of our animals remain well-cared for, always receiving plenty of food and water and treats and love. The gardens, however, have received the lion’s share of the neglect we have to offer. This is where the “something’s gotta give” seems to have given.

The other day, we finally committed to, roughly, six straight hours of weeding.

The weedy, weedy broccoli patch

The weedy, weedy broccoli patch

On an organic farm, weeds are king. Unless you have A LOT of spare time or a staff of full-time weeders at your disposal, weeds will be a large part of your life.

If you actually manage to find the time to attend to it, however, there is something really gratifying about getting down in the dirt and dealing with them.

We managed to get through the carrots, radishes, brussels sprouts, half the kale, the majority of the delicata squash, and the broccoli.

When I started the broccoli, it was a challenge to determine where the broccoli rows even were.

Weed-free broccoli!

Weed-free broccoli!

The weeds had fairly taken over and so I hunkered down to the hugely daunting task, pulling weeds that were more abundant and certainly larger than the edible plants themselves.

But, when the job was complete, the pigs had quite the feast and it really did seem like something had been accomplished.  These plants now stood a chance.  A difference had most certainly been made.

All this, without the push of a button.



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Goat Milk?

Janie The Precocious Goat is still making milk.

Back at the beginning of May, I wrote a piece about Janie making milk without having been bred (you can read that post here: http://applewoodfarm.wordpress.com/2014/05/04/shes-not-kidding/).  At the time, we really didn’t know whether the milk would continue and, for a while, it did seem to taper off.  A couple of weeks ago, however, I noticed that her bags were REALLY FULL and she clearly needed to be milked.

Since we hadn’t milked in several weeks, I did the ol’ pump-n-dump (a favorite for breastfeeding mommies who went ahead and had that second glass of wine, thank you very much), contributing the milk to the bottomless charity that is the pig trough.  This system went on over the next week or so; Janie would need to be milked every other day and the milk would be immediately donated to the pigs.

Then, last week, I went to feed the goats, saw Janie’s milk-packed udders, and realized I’d forgotten to bring a container.

The thing about goats (ours anyway) is that once you’ve gotten within 100 feet of them and/or they’ve heard your voice, there is no going back.  The bleating starts in earnest and they run around as though they’ve been trapped and abandoned forEVER and they have not had anything to eat since last month, and I don’t care what you forgot, get in here NOW!

So, I looked around for something improvisational.

The only even remotely possible substitute was the plastic quart container (think Chinese soup take-out vessel) that we use to scoop their feed/alfalfa mixture.  A total absence of choices always makes decisions easy.

Milking Janie, backwards, on the stanchion

Milking Janie, backwards, on the stanchion

Now, unlike most goats, Janie will not be milked in the stanchion.  She hates it.

I can’t say that I blame her, really.  I don’t imagine it is pleasant to have your head locked in a brace that prevents you from moving, even if there is a bunch of food right in front of you.

Luckily for me, she will allow herself to be milked as long as we do it wherever she happens to be at the time.

Sometimes she’ll actually stand right on the stanchion, but backwards.  I have to admit, I kind of admire that level of defiance.

So, I’m milking her into the quart container and she’s got A LOT of milk this time.  As I’m going along and the foam settles, I realize that I’m precariously close to the lip of the container and Janie’s bags are still quite full.  Hmmm…

I stop for a moment, bring the container around to her face, and let her smell it.

She dips her tongue tentatively into the warm froth and then, without hesitation, she literally sinks her entire muzzle into the container and almost drains it within seconds.

And now there is room in the container for me to finish milking her.

Sometimes these things work themselves out.

We go along like this for a day or two before I get a call from my friend Sue.  Sue is connected to a wonderful wildlife sanctuary nearby called The Wildlife Center.  She is wondering if we have any goat milk to spare for a small group of fawns who are being rehabilitated and cared for prior to being released back into the wild in a month or so.

Well, Sue… funny you should ask.

So, we start milking Janie to SAVE BABY DEER!  We went from chucking it into the pig trough, to returning it right back into the goat from whence it came, to really making a huge difference for four beautiful fawns.

Sure, it'll probably get hit by a car or shot by a hunter, but for NOW… so cute.

Sure, it’ll probably get hit by a car or shot by a hunter, but for NOW… so cute.

The girls and I had the good fortune to meet said fawns during today’s milk drop-off.

And before you go on and on about how the deer population is out of control and the last thing we need are MORE deer and isn’t this all just nature’s way of dealing with a problem… just look at how sweet they are.

I’d never come into physical contact with a not-dead deer before.  They are soft and sweet and beautiful and friendly and they chew on everything.

In fact, the fawn pictured here was trying to eat the button right off the pants I was wearing–the same button that the goats are always angling for.

They are like some perfect dog-goat hybrid and I’m pleased to be able to help give them a running start before hunting season.


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These Chicks Have Two Mommies (or, It Takes a Village)

One by one, our hens have gone broody over the past two months. Fifteen new chicks have joined our flock in that time, hatched from four broody mamas.

And now there are even more.

These new chicks came from a clutch of nine eggs that had been started by a broody hen who gave up on being broody after a couple of days. I don’t know whether she got bored or distracted or just had a change of heart about becoming a parent, but whatever her reason, she left one day for a pack of smokes and never came back.

Two broody hens, sitting on nothing but pine shavings.

Two broody hens, sitting on nothing but pine shavings.

As luck would have it, two of our other hens went broody that same day. They plopped themselves side by side in the small coop and hunkered down for a sit. The only problem was that neither of them was on any eggs.

You’d be amazed at how unimportant the presence of actual eggs seems to be to a hen ready for sitting. I always wonder if they think the chicks will appear miraculously at some point; I certainly do my best to help maintain the illusion.

Noticing this shift in parentage, I grabbed the nine abandoned eggs and stuffed five under one hen and four under the other. Then we all waited three weeks to see how many MORE chicks we’d have (answer: seven).

But here’s the really interesting/weird/unusual/it-takes-a-village/co-parenting/communal-living/when-two-hens-love-each-other-very-very-much part: The two mamas are almost never out of direct physical contact with one another.

This is exceptionally strange because new mama hens are territorial, hyper-protective, and even aggressive, if need be.  They typically want no one, hen nor human, anywhere near their babies.  I’ve never seen one act any other way.

Until these ladies.


Raising chicks the Dr. Sears way

All of their eggs hatched within eight hours of each other.  Another eight or so hours later, I moved them each down to a crate on the floor with their respective chicks.  When I checked back later, they had moved themselves together.

I decided that the one hen must have moved because the sideways bin was easier to access than the upright milk crate.  I figured they’d eventually come to some sort of highly-evolved, civil agreement that would sort itself out in the form of a shared living arrangement that suited everyone.

But, no.

Outdoor snuggly antics

Outdoor snuggly antics

This morning, they took their snuggly antics outside.

And lest you, dear reader, are misled to believe that these ladies are too besotted with one another to care properly for their young, please rest assured this is not the case.

If you look closer, you will see evidence that they are not only snuggled together, they are also snuggled atop their (now shared) clutch of newborns.

All seven of the little ones are tucked safely underneath both mamas.

The Gang of Nine

The Gang of Nine

And this Gang of Nine goes nowhere without each other.

At no time does one mama break away from the pack with her own chicks.

I’m starting to wonder whether they even know which chicks were hatched by whom.

I’m starting to think that neither of them really cares.

And I’m really starting to wonder if this hen couple wasn’t already a couple long before being further united by broodiness.  I mean, this whole story reads quite a lot like our two girlfriends who wanted children and found a sperm donor and ended up with triplets.

I’m just sayin’.



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