The Farm (Part 1)

Those two words: The Farm-- has stirred feelings in me from as far back as I can remember. Before my farm were the memories of my aunt's farm, the aunt who started the ball rolling with the shoebox containing the two baby ducks. Over the many years on their farm, they raised dairy cows, sheep, all manner of poultry and fowl,some mules, horses, dogs, cats and huge gardens of vegetables fertilized by whatever form of livestock was being raised at the time. It was a magical place to me as a child and that magic never left me as I grew into adulthood.  No one ever denied the hard work involved, but even when that farm was in its most primitive state, it was always tidy. I had no idea just how much work was involved. Yet, I craved it for myself.

When I moved out here from the city, it was a little over a month before my 38th birthday. The time was ripe: I'd felt at the time that if I hadn't made the move then, I never would.  I'd spent the ten years in the city, after my husband had died, reading everything I could get my hands on of people chucking it all and moving to the wilderness, modern pioneers, if you will, surviving -40 degree winters and worse in the wilds of Canada, or the north woods of Maine. Reading what these people endured and learned about themselves in the process only fed my obsession until I knew I needed to find that special place for myself.

Living in relative comfort where we were, in the city, we none-the-less began "roughing it", pulling the thermostat down and burning wood instead of natural gas, first in the fireplace, but later with an airtight woodstove (we bought firewood, but had to cut it to size and split it). We'd grown a garden every year, but in addition to the vegetables and fruit trees, I learned about and grew a large variety of herbs. Having raised the ducks for two years, I was becoming somewhat of an expert on this variety of fowl. I felt that all these things were valuable skills to learn for my future.

And so, when the house in the city eventually sold and this place had been found, we moved to this perfectly magical, gently rolling small-acreage on the edge of the woods and I thought I was prepared for anything. I was Woman, I was strong. This was the '80's! Man, was I mistaken...

To-Do Lists

It seems that I've been making lists ever since I learned to write. I LOVE making lists. Today, I keep my lists in a steno book. I have some that start with the week and act as a daily planner. The satisfaction of getting a job done, and checking it off is absolutely impowering to me. Of course, with life going on and numerous side-tracks, some weeks don't see a completed list, and those things that didn't get accomplished end up on next week's roster. This is why I sometimes put extremely petty jobs on my list: for that feeling of having accomplished something I'd set my mind to, even if a few major things need to wait another week.

When it's time to garden, a list for planting is made. I should probably be keeping all of those in their own notebook and then I'd have a seasonal journal of what worked and what didn't. I used to be so well organized, but when I moved to the country, that skill seemed to go out the window. Now, I call it "organized chaos". There is just so much to do, sometimes, I feel lucky it's written down in one book, let alone two.

In addition to the jobs to-do list, other notations are marked on that page: reminders, phone numbers, ideas for dinner,,,my life is caught up and displayed on those pages. My shopping list has its own page and, of course, goes with me to the store. If I should ever leave that book behind, I feel as though my brain has been lost! It has happened, and thank goodness I've always managed to retrace my steps to find my precious steno book. Recently, I've taken the precaution of putting my name and phone number on the cover when I start a new book, just in case...

During kidding season, lists are made of does who've kidded, how many kids each doe had, sex and names of the kids, when the does were wormed(usually the same day, after they've kidded). All this information is transferred to my monthly calendar, which is kept forever. All important information about the goats is recorded on that calendar and it becomes a quick reference guide as to when I can begin collecting milk for table.Of course, along with dairying info, daily squares are marked with appointments, important dates to remember, a favorite program not to be missed when one forgets what day it is, and so on. Looking at the notations I put on that calendar further illustrates life here on the farm, year to year. At least, the calendar never leaves the house, so I feel at least a part of me remains grounded...

RECIPE --Greasy Bread

When the weather warms up enough to start thinking about outdoor cooking, my family starts drooling in anticipation of a szalona sutes, which means, in Hungarian, a bacon fry. A hardwood fire needs to be built, and some sturdy but thin oak or maple tree branches must be gathered, their tips shaved into a point with a sharp knife. Pieces of cured and smoked pork backfat need to be procured from a specialty butcher(this is becoming the singularly most difficult part of this feast to buy, unless one knows of an ethnic butcher or someone who does one's own curing and smoking. Pigs are being raised, today, to be leaner, and there isn't as much fat on their backs as in the "old days". The resulting "bacon" with rind attached is usually only an inch or so thick, when it used to be about 3". This bacon is pure pork fat with no streak of meat in it).

Other ingredients needed are a loaf or two of good rye bread, spring onions(scallions), a sweet onion(Vidalia is great), tomatoes, salt and whisky. Thinly slice the scallions(white and green parts), and slice the sweet onion and tomatoes. Arrange the rye bread slices on plates or trays, sprinkle lightly with salt and strew some of the sliced scallions onto each piece.

Meanwhile, with a sharp knife, such as a boning knife with a sharp point, make a cut into the bacon's rind to accommodate the stick. Placing the bacon on a sturdy surface to do this can prevent a serious cut to a hand, but be careful, anyway. The stick is run into the side of the bacon chunk as near as possible to the rind and then out the pre-cut hole that was made in the rind. This is to help prevent losing one's bacon in the fire as it fries. Turn the bacon over with the fat side up and make two or three vertical and horizontal cuts into the bacon. Make shallow cuts; they can be cut deeper if necessary, later, to release more grease.

Now, the fun begins! Set the plate or tray of prepped bread nearby, and either stand in front of the fire or sit in a chair and hold the stick over the hot coals, turning the stick constantly. As the bacon heats up, it will start to drip grease. Quickly pull it away from the fire and drip the grease onto the rye bread. Although the bacon will eventually char, you don't want this to happen quickly. Charring makes the bacon bitter. Return the bacon to the fire and remove to drip grease over all your slices of rye bread. Trial and error will tell you when you've put enough on each slice. When you feel you're done frying, carefully remove the stick from the bacon, cut the bacon off the rind in one piece and slice into small slices. Put a slice of tomato on the bread, a piece of the bacon, a slice of onion if desired. Drink a shot of whisky and toast the day. Eat your "greasy bread". Isn't it the best stuff you've ever tasted?

Stories told in my family involved how this was done by farmers in Hungary in the "old days". Everything could be transported out to the fields without the need for refrigeration. And, everyone worked so hard, they weren't afraid of high cholesterol or even what calories were. Today, this is a rare treat, and we only indulge in it once a year or so. Even the whisky had a purpose: drinking a shot of whisky was supposed to coat your stomach so the grease wouldn't stick. Oh, and I'd add a pot of hot coffee to top off this delicious meal as we remember those who came before us.

Spring Tonic

Finally! Spring has arrived. The welcomed sun, the warm breezes, the heady scent of trees in bloom coupled with smell of the freshly-mowed pasture grass, which is my lawn, trigger so many memories.

It was at this time of year Mum would go out to her garden to see whether any of her perennial herbs had come up. She returned to her kitchen with large sorrel leaves somewhat resembling spinach in appearance. After carefully washing the leaves and chopping them up, she would cook them in their own moisture until tender. Then, she made a paste of about a tablespoon of flour, some water, a little sour cream and added it to the cooked sorrel, along with a bit of sugar and salt. It was all brought to a boil and was done. In Hungarian, it is called soska matas, and is served, lukewarm, a dab on your plate, with roast beef or pork. It was considered a spring tonic--a little went a long way! Being one of the first things to come up in the Spring, it was an acquired taste, but something that was anticipated each year. I tried to transplant it to my own garden with no success. I'll have to try to find seeds, somewhere.  If I'm desperate for some, I can pick the wild variety in my lawn, as we did when we lived in Europe. They are arrow-shaped leaves, and when tasted, are very sour, with almost a lemony-sour flavor. but it takes a lot more time to gather the wild sorrel leaves, because they are so small.

Another plant we always watched for, in her garden was the Lovage. It came back faithfully, year after year, the size of a 3' bush. The leaves had a very strong celery scent and flavor, and were used to flavor soups and stews. Again, a little went a long way. On several occasions, I took root cuttings and attempted to grow it in my own garden with no success. Such simple plants that are becoming rare and are difficult to find.

These days, I forage my own garden for a spring tonic for my goats. When the comfrey is up, I pick bouquets of leaves for them and take it to the barn where they voraciously devour every last one offered. The kids aren't sure of this new flavor, but watching the adults, they soon learn it is a delicacy not to be missed!

Some people have their secret ramp patches, the French have their truffles. I think our primordial instincts come alive in the spring as we hunt and gather our various "tonics"...or maybe, the true tonic is getting out into the fresh air and breathing the new life rising up from the earth.

Getting Here

It started with two baby ducks in a shoebox. Little did I know this innocent gift from an aunt who lived in the country would be the catalyst which finally moved me into the direction of which I'd been dreaming for ten years.I knew nothing about raising ducks. I bought a book,"Raising the Home Duck Flock". I learned the basics from that book, but soon found our ducks posed questions not answered in print.  Many calls to my aunt brought her sage advice, "Just watch them and you'll learn everything you need to know".

"Guido" and "Luigi" grew into fine, healthy adult ducks. They were of the Muskovy breed, and were, in fact, male and female. I learned, also, that muskovies are very good parents, and soon, we had enough eggs for our table and a growing flock in the backyard. For the most part, no one except for our immediate neighbors knew they even existed. Muskovies don't actually quack. The males hiss, and the females make a cooing sound except when provoked, and then may quack, but not loudly.

We had an inground pool and I feared the ducks would ruin it, thinking they had a pond. But they never swam in it. The only time we found a duck on the pool was when one slid over the edge and landed on the winter cover. When the pool was opened in spring, they kept their distance, content to play in the kiddy pool we had for them. I wondered if this was because their feet couldn't touch bottom? The practice continued after we moved to the country. We noticed the babies enjoyed a swim in the kiddy pool, but seemed to outgrow the urge as they matured. Muskovies, we also learned, are leaner ducks, and are not as waterproof as other breeds. Maybe that was why.

When the flock began to number around 20, babies began to sneek under the fence, and were found swimming in puddles near the street.  The word was out; boxes of escaped ducklings began showing up at our gate when we came home from the grocery store. I feared the city would cite me for raising fowl in my backyard. Although no one reported it, it was time. I'd wanted to move to a place in the country for at least ten years: what better time than now?

It took over two years to sell our home in the city for the price I wanted, and all the farms I'd looked at during that time were subsequently bought by others. I felt I couldn't live on less than 25 acres, but when reality set in, my funds dictated the outcome. If the house was in good condition, there wasn't enough land. If the acreage was adequate, the house and outbuildings needed too much work. I was a widow with a teenaged son who wasn't totally committed to this farm-idea as one year dragged into two with no buyers for our house. And then, it happened. Someone bought our house and I found the farm.  A "farm", hardly, by any stretch of the imagination but mine. The house was solid; it stood near the epicenter of an earthquake some years back but suffered  no damage. But, my dream of no less than 25 acres was readjusted to 4 1/2. The land was gently rolling, on the edge of a woodland with a stream below. It had a barn where the previous owners had kept a horse. It felt like home.

So, on moving day, on the last trip back to the city, we loaded forty ducks into the back of my pickup and turned many heads in passing, as we drove to our farm on the edge of the woods.