Posted in Raised by a village

Swinging Steak Basket

Friday afternoon, I sat in the Cafe 33 and Steakhouse in Perkins, Oklahoma with my friend Susie. Looking over the menu, I asked, “What are calf fries?”

Susie said, “Testicles. Rocky Mountain Oysters.”

I responded, “huh?”

She said, “Calf testicles. That’s why they call it a ‘swinging steak basket’ it comes with toast and french fries.”

I busted out laughing and the local patrons looked at me like I stepped from a spacecraft. Nicole, the waitress stopped to take our drink order and she confirmed that sure enough, calf fries are indeed sliced bovine testicles served with a special dipping “balls’ sauce”.

I said, “I’ve eaten fish lip stew and fish eyeballs in the Philippines. I’ve snacked on grasshoppers, waterbugs and crickets in Cambodia. I’ve eaten foods that I could not pronounce in South Korea, and I’ve eaten squirrel and rabbit pot pie at home. Why Yes, I’ll take the Swinging Steak Basket with extra ball sauce please.”

Our plates arrived, and Nicole said, “Each May we have the annual Calf Fry Festival.” I nearly choked. Apparently, it’s a big deal. She continued, “we just call it the ‘testicle festival’ and there are lots of bands and food. Some folks say our calf fries have too much breading, but others like it. What do you think?”

I dipped my calf fry into the mystery spicy sauce, and peered at it dubiously. After a bite I replied, “they’re thinner than I imagined and not chewy like I thought.”

Susie grinned and ate her reuben sandwich. I told the waitress, “I castrated 11 goats a few months ago. If I had known there was a market for this delicacy, I wouldn’t have just tossed them on the ground.”

She laughed and as I ate another bite of my swinging steak basket.

I said, “ya know, they don’t taste nutty at all.”

If you ever find yourself in Oklahoma, try the Swinging Steak Basket, or go out on a limb and order the lamb fries. The food at the Cafe 33 is great and the service is quick. They also have cakes, pies and cinnamon rolls for dessert.

Dipping Sauce ingredients:

Ketchup, Mustard and Tabasco.

Posted in Raised by a village

Cows in the Cemetery

“Stop the truck, I know those cows… and that’s my daddy walking them down the road!”

As Jim slowed the truck with our 25 new chickens on the back, he said, “your cows are out.” I said, “this is why we don’t have cows.”

I shook my head as he rolled down the window and the neighbor gave me a thumbs-up indicating everything was under control. We drove home because at this point it only took 3 men to walk five steers across the field with a bucket of feed, and we were blocking traffic.

After unloading the new birds, we headed back to Daddy’s to walk the fence line. We found the break: top strands broken by deer. When the cows discovered it, they simply took a hike.

We delivered a round bale of hay to customer and still made it in time to Bob’s funeral.

While the funeral crowd stood singing an a capella rendition of Victory in Jesus, I looked down and noticed multiple indentations … holstein steer hoof prints. Daddy nudged me and said, “they ate all the four leaf clovers. At least they didn’t fall in the grave.” I coughed to hide my giggle. As the service continued, I began to put the events of the steer escape into a morning timeline.

After the service, Pete the funeral director said that the grave-diggers called him in a panic 2 hours earlier because “there’s a herd of cows up here chewing on the tent ropes.” I told Pete that when you are a rural funeral director, sometimes, that means at some point you get cows in the cemetery.

Pulling a loose strand of hay from my hair, I apologized to Bob’s widow for wearing my boots and jeans. Peg smiled and said, “We put Bob in his bib overalls. You’re fine. Just keep being a blessing.”

Smiling, I said, “I think Bob would’ve liked knowing that the cows escaped up here to save us a seat.”

I am forever grateful to our neighbors for herding and helping daddy.

My uncle’s escaping steers will be heading to the sale this week. Daddy’s rule of thumb with cows has always been that once they figure out how to escape, they’ll do it again in the rain or in the middle of the night. I’d rather not have to go back to the cemetery in the dark to round up a couple of wayward runaway steers.

P.S. The new chickens will start laying eggs by Memorial Day. Let me know if you want on the egg list.

Posted in Raised by a village

Foxy Brown – Part 2

My alarm sounded at 5:30 a.m. Pre-coffee, I dressed and trudged to the barn to check on our goat patient Foxy Brown. Ney the donkey brayed in protest at seeing me so early in the day, while Vera Wang and Kate Spade eyed me quizzically over the goat protein pail. The rest of the herd greeted me with sleepy-eyed quests for food.

I was waiting for the coin toss: I would either be burying a goat at 5:45 or giving her electrolyte paste. Wonders never cease, and prayers are answered. There, in the barn, stood Foxy Brown. Tail still down (often a sign that a goat isn’t feeling well), she spotted me and moved in the other direction. I said, “well, that is progress, you’re running away!”

Leaving her to ponder her next move, I pitched two bales of hay into the feeders and missed one of them. Twenty goats pounced on that fallen bale. I lifted it, muttering, “get off of it ya turd-buckets” and pulled a rib muscle. Once I filled the feeders with hay, I took a square to Foxy Brown. Still a bit wobbly, she looked the opposite direction. I headed to the house, had Jim to slather generic mentholated cream on my back and went to the office.

Later in the day, Daddy checked on the herd and sent me a text, “Count 24. All look good”. It is always a good sign when someone counts the herd and tells you the correct number…unlike me as a child telling Daddy that we had between 14 and 16 calves. He took the average and knew that he only had 15 in that lot; yet I digress.

I returned the text with a photo and asked him to check for Foxy Brown specifically.

Apparently, the goat started talking to Daddy.😁

Jim checked her after work, and found her resting near her mother Sheri. I later went to check and found her hanging out, not letting me near her. She is on the mend: still a bit wobbly, but eating, drinking and staying close to the herd.

Posted in Raised by a village

Foxy Brown – Part 1

Most husbands walk through the door after work expecting to be greeted by the sounds of a spouse, dog(s), or kids. My husband, on occasion has been greeted by the sound of a goat kid, screaming in discomfort. Tonight was that night. I discovered one of our 9 month old female goats, named Foxy Brown standing in the pasture, in shock and bleeding from the neck. Hastily, I lifted her to the wheelbarrow and took her to the house. Although she only weighs about 50 pounds, she’s sturdy enough that I did not want to haul her from the barn to the house if I could avoid it.

At the back door, I hoisted her in my arms and put her on the rug in the back hallway. Her temperature was 2 degrees below normal. I wrapped her in a towel, and gave her a dose of Vitamin B, Vitamins A, E & D and a broad spectrum antibiotic. I cleaned the small square puncture and applied Aluminum Bandage, a spray for animal wounds.

She rested a few hours, then stood, shook her head, peed on my rug (again for the 3rd time), and seemed to want to go outside. After a bit of discussion, Jim recommended putting her back in the barn near the others. I could only imagine her tale if she could talk, “and then I awoke in 73 degree weather in the light … but it wasn’t the sun.”

We’ll see how she is tomorrow.

Life on the farm.

Click to see Part 2

Posted in Raised by a village

Happy Goat Hour

I skipped happy hour with coworkers… again… because of the goats. My coworkers are great, but factor in an hour commute and a passel of animals, my time is limited on weeknights.

Tonight, as I fed over-ripened cucumbers to the goats, and dropped the evening rations to the feral barn cats, a friend dropped by, and we watered the goats.

Then two stray dogs wandered through the pasture. This time, beagles. Their owner, a nice young man came into the yard just as one of the beagles touched the goats’ electric fence. Yelping, the dog, named Sophie, bolted through the cornfield amid 10-feet tall stalks. Cindy finished watering the goats and I headed into the cornfield in search of J’s wayward dog. No luck. She went through the back woods headed to the next road. I was not up for that much of a hike at dusk.

In this age of cell phones, I pulled out my phone and asked for J’s number and said if Sophie returned, I would call.

As he left, I spotted a new treasure: a new-to-me discarded wire spool, courtesy of the local power company. A childhood friend and classmate works for the local co-op and dropped a newly discarded spindle. This is how we recycle….a wooden spool used to hold power line transforms into a goat step stool. After rolling it into place, the bachelors, Bert and Ernie, began field testing the new addition to the goat tower.

T

hank you REMC for the fantastic service and the opportunity to recycle. And thanks to new neighbors who help water the caprines.

Posted in Raised by a village

Another Silver Spoon

Tonight, I thought that Steve the goat would become the world’s first caprine beekeeper. Alas, he just pretended to be a pointer and stood by while I dumped a newly discovered swarm into a brood box. Different from the swarm we capped last night, this second swarm consisted of 1000 bees just hanging on a tree limb in the goats’ pasture. Convincing them to go into an empty box involved me moving an empty box, picking up the limb with the bees, and shaking them into the box.

With that success, and having managed to destroy a black widow spider, her 3 sacs of minuscule babies and a wasp attempting to take over an empty honeybee box, it was time for stage two of moving the hive from last night.

Armed with a smoker, a temporary board and the empty brood box, Daddy, Jim and I moved last night’s hive to a new location. Daddy did not even use gloves or a veil. Kelly dislikes getting stung more than I do, so he stood out of the way and graciously took photos. Jim ran the smoker to help keep the bees calm. They were much better than last night.

We added the top, slid the temporary board beneath the supers and strapped-down the lid. Then, we carried it to its new location about 50 feet east and walked away. After we let them settle, I pulled the rag-stopper out of the vent and we left them. Tomorrow, we will put them on the brood box and leave them in their current location until January.

There’s a poem about catching swarms:

A hive in May is worth a stack of hay.

A hive in June is worth a silver spoon.

A hive in July ain’t worth a fly.

At this point, I expect two silver spoons… if we can get them to produce. We will move that 2nd hive soon too.

Hive move stage 2 status: complete.

Posted in Raised by a village

It’s Good for Rheumatism

Daddy’s text this afternoon indicated that he found a possible beehive swarm. In my phone call to him as I left the office he requested a brood box, a hive top and bottom, and instructions to pick him up after dark. Cryptic at least, fully instructed at best.

Jim and I arrived after dark with an empty brood box on the back of the truck, and veils and gloves. Oh sure, some beekeepers go into boxes barehanded, without veils, but to me, that is just asking bee stings to the face.

We discovered a new swarm of honeybees, completely moved into an abandoned pair of supers; the section of a standard hive where bees make honey, not where the queen lays eggs or brood (baby bees). Not bad, a swarm in a box was easier than convincing a swarm to move out of a tree. However, a chain had been laid on the abandoned boxes and the bees were beginning to incorporate the chain into the structure of their new residence.

My job at 9:45 pm: move the tractor chain from the bee abode, and add a temporary cover so they can be moved to a permanent location. Oh, and make sure that 10,000 bees stay calm.

I donned my gloves and veil over my long-sleeved collar shirt. Jim and Daddy provided instructions from a distance, “move the chain slowly” … “just move it quickly and drop it behind the box” … “don’t rile them, the bottom box is full” … “put the top on with the vent down.”

Did I mention it was 9:30 at night, in the dark and that I fought a migraine off and on all day? Truth be told, Jim worked a 12-hour shift, then pulled the box supplies from our inventory, and Daddy had been out working most of the day as well. So we were a bit tired.

Then a bee stung my knee, and the hive activity kicked-up a notch. Slowly moving the chain was not an option. I grabbed what appeared to be the other end of the chain and slung it on the ground. Buzzing amplified round my bonnet and they crawled on my arms and pants. “Now put the cover liner on and leave them until tomorrow .” I ducked away to clear the trailing bees. After a minute or so, I went back to them, put the cover on the new hive and ran.

As I removed my red chicken sloggers to rid my sock of a wayward bee, I asked daddy, “Did Papaw ever get stung?” Daddy replied, “Oh sure. ‘Good for the rheumatism’. At least that’s what Dad used to say.”

I guess that’s better than, “suck it up buttercup.”

Posted in Raised by a village

Vigilance

Between feral dogs attacking daddy’s steers, hawks stealing chickens, and a donkey who lost his mind and injured 3 goats, the past few weeks have been interesting on the farm. With the spring kidding season, we welcomed 14 kids, plus daddy’s pygmy goats bore 10 (Yes, we have goats available). Now, as summer officially begins in a few weeks, we watch for the paragliders who loop low over the fields and buzz the animals from the air. These motorized gliders started out a few years ago high in the sky. Tonight, two of them buzzed the hay field lower than the power lines swooping in and around the terraces. One of them saw me and had to increase speed to raise above the power lines (generally poles are 40 feet tall). Another had blinking flashes, so I am guessing that they were recording video.

Daddy asked if I knew who they were or what they wanted. No, I do not know who they are or where they land and take-off. They are annoying and creepy. Last year, they buzzed the pasture and made the goats run. That infuriated me.

What to do? For the dogs, we are working with animal control to trap the feral dogs. And now, I have to watch for paragliders who circle the farm. They saw me tonight, making a large X symbol with my arms and waving them out of the air. They were low enough for me to see their sunglasses and helmets. If you know anything about the motorized paragliders in western Lincoln County, NC, let me know.

Posted in Raised by a village

Princess Buttercup

What’s in a Name? I wonder why Shakespeare never compared names to goats. Imagine it: Juliet standing on her  balcony, Romeo hiding in the bushes, and Juliet sniffs the air. Instead of comparing surnames to a rose, she would have said, “dude, did you come from the goat field?” The play just would not have been the same. Yet I digress. 

Those eight goats that Jim brought home a few weeks ago, they’ve all been named, except for one. Honestly, I thought she (the last one) was a boy, because one of the four kids kept escaping when we did vacccines, I couldn’t remember which white goat was which! My coworkers named the others: Madea, Sheri, Wanda Sykes, Wendy Williams, Lady Gaga, Ashy Larry and Tyrone Bigums; the last two were characters on the Dave Chappell Show. Wendy Williams was chosen because we realized that she’s a fainting goat and my co-workers insisted that we name our fainting goat after Wendy Williams. Still no name for the escapee. With 25 goats, and because I have no idea whether Madea, Wendy, Wanda or Sheri is the mother of “Skittish Brown-headed Girl”, we decided that we could name her anything. I just need something to put on her paperwork so that I know which goat received which vaccine. Yes, celebrity names make it fun when I talk about my goats and less awkward when one of them gets the worms. I named two animals after my lifelong friend LeslieR. It was a little odd telling my life-long friend Leslie that she didn’t make it as a chicken or a guinea pig. That text message was something like “had to bury Leslie today, she was attacked by a hawk.”

New Year’s Day, I texted my friend Lisa to say we were running late to lunch because, “we had to move Ashy Larry and Tyrone Bigums to the bachelor pad. Lady Gaga had the scours, so she got goat dewormer. ”  Lady Gaga was identified as “the little one with the poopy-butt”.  

Tonight, in the 15-degree evening temperature,  I still could not come up with a name. I moved Bert, Ernie, Tex and Clara back to the main pasture and decided to ask the social media masses for name suggestions.  With Jim as the final decision-maker, multiple entries and several laughs, we settled on (as you wish)  “Princess Buttercup“. 

Madea

Wanda and Wendy

Princess Buttercup

Bert and Clara
Bert, Ernie, Clara and Tex

Posted in Raised by a village

Somewhere Along the Way

At some point, two years ago, I became known as the “crazy chicken lady”. Last year,  when we added goats to the menagerie,  I gained the title of “Crazy Goat Lady”, and set about naming our herd after celebrities.  Friends and coworkers helped name a few. I’ve studied breeding schedules, feeding schedules, goat health, nutrition, and I’ve helped deliver a few new kids. 

Breeding season is in full swing. In my mind, I’m calculating the number of bales of hay required to feed them through the winter, watching for signs of illness and Jim is planning catch pen systems for herd checks and vaccinations.   We’re considering retail sale of packaged meats (processed at an inspected facility) and visioning business strategies to make the farm profitable.  

It’s common for me to sit in an operations meeting during the day at the office transforming notes and processes into requirements for developers, then hours later, I’m standing in a barn wearing overalls and shoveling manure or chasing a wayward goat by moonlight. On weekends, I’ve stood in pulpits and in front of groups of women listening to ideas for mission projects or facilitating small group discussions.  At home, I have Gantt charts on the kitchen whiteboard for farm and house projects. 

More than once, people have asked, “how do you do it?” And my response is often a shrug and a joke that I don’t sleep much.   Honestly, I don’t know the answer.  I take phone calls by blue-tooth / hands-free while commuting and send emails at times when others are sleeping. Yesterday, I realized that my blog hadn’t been updated in months, actually, since the week before mom had surgery then went into hospice. Funny how illness, death and grief will rearrange schedules and priorities. Life gets in the way. Years ago, I started blogging when we were primary caregivers for my late mother-in-law during during her end stages of life.  Blogging provided an outlet and opened doors for me to join a virtual community of caregivers. 

More recently, when I became the farmer-professional-extraordinaire, I had bandwidth and space for sharing about the funny things that happen on the farm and how “city-folk” find my antics amusing. When Mom had surgery a few months ago,  I didn’t have the bandwidth to share with others outside of my inner circle the daily routine of home-work-hospice/hospital-farm-volunteer-commute. Some days, it was all I could do to feed the dog and cat, make coffee,  shower, commute somewhere (hospice,  work, church, home), and repeat. 

Coordinating  mom’s care and being there for daddy became my number one priority.  My husband,  my dad, my brothers, my inner circle, my tribe (those close family and friends) … they are what mattered.  They’re still what matters. They’re my world. When someone told me that I needed to remember that other-people-somewhere-unrelated cared about mom and they thought she should get “this or that”, I simply responded,  “I know they are interested. They don’t get a vote. My role is to make sure that she gets the best care, and I will do that to the best of my ability until my last breath.”  

I struggled to sift through grief, anger, doubt, and fear, just as others demanded to know why I didn’t pay attention to them. I recognized that I needed to stay connected, but I sought resources to help me deal with the day-to-day crap. There’s a great book by Megan Devine called “It’s OK that You’re Not OK“. I highly recommend it for anyone in the wake of death or for the caregiver sitting in hospice awaiting the last hours, days and weeks. 

In the midst of it all, I posted random pictures on social media,  listened to the news, went to work, and somewhere in there, I kept the clothes washed and gas in the car. Thank goodness for Jim… he washed dishes and made lots of meals. 

I’m still that crazy chicken/goat lady. Life on the farm still happens, and I’m still amusing city-folk with normal things like having a goat-naming contest for the newest second-hand goats that Jim brokered. At some point in the next few weeks, I’ll finish year-end reports and maybe start sewing tote bags from chicken feed sacks again. 

Working on a puzzle at Hospice.

As the goats turn….

We replaced a floor that had been held together by old carpet and the Grace of God.
An elephant to remind me of my tribe.