Visiting Auntie Hoophouse

If the earth is our Mother, then surely our heated hoop house is a Beloved Old Auntie. She is a warm and welcoming Auntie, and we farmers spend lots of time with her in early spring, helping her dig her garden beds, helping her get her seeds started, helping her stay just the right temperature.

Warmth. Auntie Hoop House likes to be just the right temperature. She basks between 70 and 80 degrees, and it is especially nice to visit her in March, or even April, when it can still be mighty cold outside (as well as a little cold in the farmers' house, because the farmers can't decide if it's chilly enough to start a fire in the wood stove, and thus use up the dwindling wood supply.) Whatever the weather, Auntie insists on being warm (and she has the propane bill to show for it!).

But Auntie doesn't like to get too hot, either. On a sunny day, she can heat up ten degrees in a matter of minutes, and she begins to feel faint. She needs a lot of attention in early spring, because her circumstances have to be adjusted frequently during the day: one front door open, two front doors open, inner plastic door cover rolled up, inner plastic wall hauled up in degrees by ropes, back door blanket taken down, back inner plastic door cover rolled up, back door open, one fan on, two fans on, three fans on. And then there's reversing all that, depending on the sun and the wind and the outside temperature.

Food. Auntie Hoop House knows how to provide for her guests. In summer, of course, there are the luscious early tomatoes, the fragrant basil bouquets, the sweet red peppers, and the glossy eggplants. But even in March and April, our Auntie wants to feed us. If she can't find any spinach overwintering from the last garden season, she will gladly produce delicious wild dandelion greens. This will please her guests no end, as they dine on dandelion quiche and sauteed dandelions and the ever-popular dandelion dal. (As our then 6th-grader moaned a few years ago, “Oh geesh. I'm going to ask everybody else in my class if they're having dandelion dal for lunch.” Strangely enough, no one else was.)

Ambiance. Auntie makes her house inviting. There is the pleasant sound of gentle rain plopping on her plastic top. There is the wild mint not yet weeded out of the beds, blooming tiny purple flowers. There is the comfortable furniture, two weather beaten wooden and canvas chairs, one of which periodically and unexpectedly collapses when a guest is relaxing on it, chatting perhaps, or finishing a good novel, and maybe feeling reluctant to get up and get moving. (“Whump!” says the collapsing chair. “Oof!” says the collapsing farmer. “Yes!” says wise old Auntie. “It's time to get up and get moving!”)

Taking Care of the Babies. Surely this is Auntie Hoop House's most endearing quality. She nurtures our tiny little seeds into seedlings, and then into plants, and then into delicious food. She takes care of our yogurt babies and our bread dough babies, providing a steady warm temperature for yogging and rising. She nurtured our little human baby too, who slept in the bassinet, played in the dirt as a toddler, learned to plant and pot up and water and weed and harvest, and now frequents the collapsing chair, which adds a little zest to her high school homework.

Even though our dear Auntie can be a little forgetful sometimes – for example, she (or perhaps someone closely related to her . . . ) forgot to check and make sure the propane people really did fill up the tank when we thought they would, and the propane people didn't, which meant the propane ran out, which meant Auntie got the shivers, which meant the farmers brought 30 flats of seedlings into their house, which meant all the floor space in two rooms, and baby gates to keep the kitty out, and quite a challenge getting to the phone and the bathroom for two days and nights – still we love our Auntie Hoop House. Such a kind, good Auntie, helping us extend the garden season and strengthen the local food system. We couldn't get along without her.

Originally published in the Monadnock Shopper News, April 15-21, 2015

Ragtag March on the Farm

 

We're a ragtag bunch on the farm this time of year. In the winter the farm horses (and the farmers!) are fuzzy and round, and by the summer we''re all sleek and trim. But in March?

In March our horses are patchy and scratchy, shedding clumps of hair, rolling in the muddy-slushy barnyard, itching on the stalls and the posts in the barn, and itching on the farmers too, if the farmers are handy.

We are often handy, in March, since there's not much more satisfying than helping an itchy horse shed. The horses swoon with pleasure when we start brushing; in fact, Molly, our lovey-dovey Belgian mare, follows us around the barnyard, nudging us with her nose. Brush me! Brush me! she says, even if we're merely passing though on another errand, and have no brush available.

But Molly doesn't need a brush for happiness. Itch me, itch me instead! she says. We scratch her chin; we scratch her neck. Nudge, nudge, she pushes with her nose, You've got two hands, why aren't you using both of them?

“Molly's so funny,” I say to my fellow farmer. “she's just like you. So friendly and enthusiastic.”

“And such a hard worker, too,” my fellow adds, brushing Molly's back.

“Oh, indeed.” I scratch Molly under her mane, and she arches her neck, entirely pleased with this double attention.

Moon, Molly's Belgian brother, is standing nearby, and he is another critter entirely. He's a fine horse, too, if not exactly eager for work, and rather reserved. Even in the itchy days of March, Moon is not generally receptive to a free-standing grooming session, though once he's haltered and tied, he relaxes a bit, even allowing that a brushing on a certain spot near his front leg might feel kind of good. Even so, it takes a little while in the spring to get Moon used to the whole idea of being groomed regularly again, as a prelude to working regularly again. Luckily, it is only March, and we have time to take it slowly with him.

“Moon's so funny,” my fellow says, ”isn't he? Kind of reserved, kind of easily offended, kind of hangs back with the work, you know, kind of like . . . ahem . . . kind of like . . .”

“Now listen, my friend,” I look askance at my fellow. “Is that a sustainable, productive way to address one's beloved partner in life and in work?”

“Hee hee hee,” answers my fellow devilishly, and heads toward another itchy horse with the currycomb.

Ben, our black Percheron gelding, is our biggest, goofiest, itchy horse, and he has a funny backward flop to his ears on occasion. Sometimes I am not so sure of big ol' Benny: Is he unhappy? Is he pinning his ears back? Does he like this? Does he not want anything to do with it?

“Let me watch you groom him,” I say to my fellow, “I want to see what he does. I don't know how to read him, exactly.”

My fellow starts a vigorous brushing. Benny stands stock still, with the backward flop with his ears.

“You know, he's so big and goofy, I try not to read him too much,” my fellow remarks, which makes me laugh. And look at that, Benny has his eyes closed, and his back leg flopped out, in the bliss of having his inner leg brushed. His funny black flop ear is perfectly matched by his funny back flop leg.

“Well, he does seem pretty happy about that,” I say, going to Betsy, our black Percheron mare, sway-backed and retired, who is waiting sleepily in the sun for me. Along with the wisdom and calming presence that Betsey has acquired in her old age, she's also developed the incredibly thick and long coat of an older horse.

Betsey is our March poster horse, our most stunning equine example of ragtag March (and April, and even May and June, as she takes ages now to shed out). She has gobs of loose hair hanging all over her body. When she walks, a shower of hair attends her. She itches herself fiercely on manger and post, leaving clumps and mats and entire carpets of hair behind. This is all despite our grooming, which we soon finish for the day with a hairy flourish.

Pleased, we look around at our slightly tidier, for a few minutes at least, herd of four fine work horses. As soon as we leave the barnyard, of course, they will start rolling and itching again. But for now they look lovely, and we farmers?

We farmers are ragtag March all over: muddy and slushy, friendly and reserved, patchy and scratchy, hardworking and sleepy, and, oh yes, covered head to toe with horse hair. My fellow looks me over, and takes a currycomb to my coat, brushing gently in circles.

“There now,” he says, “Isn't this a nice, sustainable, productive way to treat one's beloved partner in life and work?”

“Hee hee hee,” I say. It tickles.

Originally published in the Monadnock Shopper News, March 18- 24, 2015

Sappy on the Farm

 

Five years ago, my enthusiastic farming fellow convinced me that making maple syrup would be an ideal addition to our operation. It would be fun, exciting, new!

February and March, of course, would be the perfect time of year for another project, since we were rested up from the last garden season, and not completely submerged yet into the next one. Hauling sap would get the work horses in shape for plowing. Boiling sap would be a great use for the enormous pile of pine, mixed in with hardwood for our wood stove, that had been deposited in our driveway months ago, thanks to a friendly local professional tree-cutter.

Plus, said my fellow, we'll have a handy little money-making enterprise, to go along with our vegetables and herbs and apples and flowers.

The budget and exactly-how-much-energy-do-two-farmers-have committee, me, that would be, was somewhat skeptical, but we finally decided to invest in second-hand taps and buckets, and a second-hand pan. In the overhang of our woodshed, we rigged up an arch with cement blocks and mud caulking and a stovepipe. We fitted our old beat-up cart with a water trough, plastic, and plywood, for collecting the sap with our work horses. Near the barnyard, we clanged and banged and dropped the buckets, and we twanged and tossed the bucket covers, so the horses wouldn't worry about the scary new sounds of collecting sap.

Happily, from the beginning, our team of black Percherons didn't bat an eye at any of this new activity. They pulled that rattly, squeaky cart right up the hill, and waited patiently as we poured in our first full buckets of sap. It seemed miraculous, all that incredible sap, all that abundance from the trees and the world!

It still seems miraculous, five years later, and we have learned many things about making syrup, including: how to burn the pan; how to endlessly scrub and scrape the burn off; how to haul the pan to your neighbor's for soldering, after you've boiled one chamber too dry, and melted the old weld; how to fashion annoying, difficult hooks out of wire, after you've lost the clever, easy hooks that came with the taps; how long it takes a full trough of sap to ferment in the sun during an unexpectedly warm spell; and how our newer team of Belgian horses bat all their eyes and tuck all their tails and wish to gallop all the way up and down the hill with the terrifying sap cart.

But mostly sap gathering is an idyllic hour, when, every two or three days, we hitch up the horses and set out. Oh, the beautiful New England winter landscape, the horse harness jingling, the exquisite drip, drip, drip of the sap in a just emptied bucket! And oh, the sweet cold sap!

Then comes the rattle-splash down the hill, and the lighting of the sap fire, and the first bubble bubble bubble in the pan. That's pretty nice too. The sap fire is a good warm way to spend an extended time outdoors, just when you're feeling February-cabin-feverish.

Extended is the key word here, meaning hours upon hours upon hours, and we know just how long we can leave the fire and the pan before the smell of burning begins. Not long enough to eat supper, for example: we have our suppers on a tray outside by the fire. We also play board games outside by the fire, and we have homework and clarinet-playing sessions outside by the fire. We sample the sap becoming syrup, we listen to the radio, we write in our journals, we fix tools, we read books and magazines. We boil eggs in the sap, make sugar on snow, brew the most delicious tea in the world with sap. And we split pine wood. We tend the flames. We add sap and we add sap and we add sap.

But as the daylight begins to wane, the skeptical, sleepy farmer also begins to wane, and it is the enthusiastic, energetic farmer who is up until the wee hours, night after night, with the fun project. Still, it is awfully tasty, on the other end, to pour that delicious (local, sustainable!) syrup on our yogurt and pancakes and cornbread and ice cream.

And our most important maple syrup learning? No, we do not, in fact, have a handy little money-making enterprise. Instead, we have just the opposite: a fine appreciation of why maple syrup is so very delicious, and so very expensive. As we tally up our little take of eleven or twelve gallons a year, plenty for us, and for gifts too, we humbly bow down to all the stalwart and productive maple syrup makers of the world.

Originally published in the Monadnock Shopper News, February 18 -24, 2015

Tending is Not Quite Toiling

There are many pleasing options for a New England vegetable farmer in January. Our harvesting ended in November, and our cram-in-all-the-rest-of-the-work-before-the-weather-gets-too-bad month of December is over. Mostly the January options feature lots of resting, but resting with just enough effort involved to ward off the guilt of not working at full-on-high-gardening-season speed.

Tend to the wood stove: We have to bring in wood from the woodshed, which allows us to admire all the fruit of our past labors of cutting down, bringing in, cutting up, and stacking all that firewood. We have to re-stack the wood in the firewood ring in the house. We have to build the fire. We have to periodically fill the stove with wood. We have to adjust dampers and flues. We have to clear out ash, and sweep the hearth. We have to lie down in front of the stove, and read our books.

Tend to the work horses: We have to feed hay to our four horses three times a day, which allows us to admire all the fruit of our past labors of mowing, raking, loading, and unloading all that hay. We have to break the ice on the water trough. We have to fill the water trough, every couple of days. We have to clean the stalls and as much of the barnyard as we can, of whatever manure that hasn't already frozen to the ground. We have to give our horses little turnip treats, and pet them, and kiss their noses, and enjoy their contented hay and turnip munching.

Tend to the kitchen: We have to plan our meals, and then fetch the ingredients from the chest freezer or the root cellar, which allows us to admire all the fruit of our past labors, all that chopping and blanching and freezing and canning and drying. We have to cook our meals. We have to wash the pots and pans and plates and silverware. We have to eat the meals, yummy meals made from our very own yummy garden vegetables. We have to get our bellies full, and then miraculously, in a little while, they are empty again, and we have to eat another yummy meal.

Tend to the greenhouses: We have to shovel the snow from the sides of our greenhouse, if the piles heap up too much, which allows us to admire all the fruit of our past labors, digging and drilling and hammering and sawing and swearing as we built each greenhouse (including the fourth and final one, completed just this past December 31st). We also have to dig the greenhouse beds, in preparation for next spring. If it's warm enough, we have to harvest and wash and eat some locally, biodynamically grown incredibly yummy and hardy and beautifully green spinach.

Tend to the taxes: We have to do this in January, as farmers taxes are due sooner than other peoples'. This could be an experience which allows us to admire all the fruit of our past labors, entering in and tallying up our accounts faithfully and dutifully every month all year. However, it is more often a wistful, rather painful period of wishing we had faithfully and dutifully entered all our accounts every month all year. Still, we can anticipate how free and gleeful we will feel in April, when we are enjoying the spring garden work, and all those other peoples are gnashing-their-taxes-teeth.

Tend to the seed catalogs: We have to use our mighty farming muscles to extract the catalogs from our post office box, which is bulging full of seed catalogs this time of year. We have to marvel at all the incredible varieties available, as well as marvel at the linguistic heights the catalog people reach in naming all the new varieties. And we have to try not to order too many of these tempting, fascinating new vegetables, in consideration of both our budget and our labor next year, which, of course, in January, are all in the future, and rosy indeed.

Originally published in the Monadnock Shopper News, Jan 21 – 27, 2015