Hot Off The Haywire

Spot On (these pigs)

Well, more piglets arrived yesterday, and I got a chance to make a short video of them, and also a glimpse at Maybell's piglets, who are growing quite nicely:

Planting time is right around the corner, and market season's not far behind. We'll send out an e-mail update before long with a new pick-up date for our pork products.

Pork & Greens

Word Steer

Funny how a word, or a combination of words, can redirect your compass, can change your azimuth so that you're on a heading you didn't choose, can turn your needle in a direction you haven't been in a long, very long time.

The other day I was at the keyboard, starting to lay down some thoughts on my next "Our Tribe" interview that I'm going to do with the Bootstrap farm. The word was in there, I just couldn't make it out yet, like a ghost in the room, unseen but giving off strong vibes. A football game was supplying some background noise, my daughter was playing on the floor, and she asked me "dad, did you play football when you were a kid?" I remembered that my brother had sent me a CD of photos when we were kids, photos he gathered up at my dad's house in Georgia after he passed away. I hadn't really looked at the pictures, just gave them the once over, but I remembered seeing a few shots of a young boy armored up in football gear, so I went and got the CD, loaded it in the computer, and called my daughter over to look at the photos.

Grainy old photos, 1960's photos, photos that ever so briefly can transport you back to your youth. We started scrolling down through the images, and that's when it hit me. I tried to duck the blow, but sometimes you just can't get out of the way.

Boots. There he was in my mind, extrapolated from Bootstrap and old photos and football, ingredients baking themselves into a cake you hadn't ordered. A red headed, freckle faced little imp, known to most as Bob Scott, but to me as "Boots". Or sometimes "Bailey Hog", but just mostly "Boots", my best friend. Who knows where the nicknames came from, time has covered the furrow of that memory, but not all the memories.

 Funny memories, like the time he asked me if I wanted to come over to his house, cause he had something cool to play with. It was a week or two before Christmas, we were out of school for the holidays, and his mom, a school teacher, was at a conference and wouldn't be home till evening. Or so he thought. When I got to his house, I asked him where this cool toy was, and he gave his mischievous little laugh, a laugh all his own, like no other I've heard before or since. He pulled a knife out of his back pocket, went over to their Christmas tree, and pulled a big package out. He took the knife and deftly lifted the taped ends, a deftness born of experience, no doubt. Out from the wrapping came one of those electric football games, the kind that had little men on plastic bases that moved across a metal field by vibration. Satisfied with my acknowledgment of his skills, we got down to the hard business of make believe football.

Not even ten minutes into the fun, we heard key enter door-lock. Mom's home. Mom's home early and we've been caught in the open, the searchlight square on us as we cross the wire. Panic doesn't paint a clear enough portrait, as his mom was a stern taskmaster, a large woman with the iron fist(s). Had I known the lyrics, I'm sure I would have broke out in "gimme three steps towards the door, and you won't see me no more". Needless to say, our afternoon fun took a serious blow, just not quite as serious as the blows taken by Boot's backside. Once the welts had subsided, we laughed about that one for weeks.

Funny memories, but also sad memories, even the saddest of all. We moved from the neighborhood to a new house a few miles away when I was 12 years old. Like all kids, I made new friends and went on with living, and Boots made new friends too, but the rub was, he didn't get to go on with his living. Always the curious cat, Boots was investigating one of his older brother's guns when it accidentally went off. The news was like any of that type of news when delivered. You don't want to open the envelope, just mark it "address unknown", just sent it back. The kind of news that leaves no outward mark, but scars you all the same. News that you try to bury deep, then pack it down hard and firm, hoping you can keep it from resurfacing.

Gravity's about to perform it's magic. About to drop the tear on the keypad, but then I remember that grown men don't cry, especially in front of their six year old daughters, but the boy on the computer screen, the boy in the football uniform, the boy that's still a part of the man is weeping. Weeping for a friend that didn't get the opportunity to sit with his daughter and look at goofy old photos.

Funny how a word can steer you. Rest in peace, Bob, I love you and miss you, brother.

Pork & Greens

I Don't Mind Stealing Bread...

...from the mouths of decadence... Metaphoric bread. A slice of corporate farming bread. Leavened with the yeast of greed, the whole loaf's gone stale. Mega profits churning out mega farms churning out mega environmental and welfare problems. Hand in hand, birds of a feather, separate but really equal. Cheap input equals cheap output equals low cost, as long as you don't count the cost to our land and water. Hidden costs, like so many land mines waiting for our children and grandchildren to step on. Helping sow the minefield with our money and then wondering why the ordnance was so heavy the ground couldn't contain it. Taking the land down hard and fast and then putting the consequences in safe deposit, a down payment on the next generation's future, which might be anything but safe. Realizing too late that the karmic wire only has so much stretch before it snaps back and takes you off your feet. But hey, the chicken's cheap, man.

...but I can't feed on the powerless...Oh they're feeding alright, gorging like there's no tomorrow, Godzilla with an appetite. Aftermath of the feeding is right in front of us, you just have to read the bones to see the signs. Algae bloom signs, fish kill signs, dead town signs, rusting skeletons of rural sales barns signs, "hazardous to swim" signs, foreclosure signs, and chemical overload signs so powerful you could grow elephant high corn for a 100 years on some ground, if you could only get the seed to take. Cadmium, mercury, arsenic, lead - pick your poison - an arc light run couldn't put as much heavy metal in the ground as the corporate ag industry does.

...when my cup's already overfilled... Filled and spilled, the coffer's filled and the fertilizer's spilled. Filling the coffers under the "we feed the world" mantra never telling you that it's going to take burning your own house down to save the rest of the neighborhood. Trying to fill the cup so full, but they can't find people that know anything about the cup or whether filling it's a good thing or not. People working with livestock and crops who think stockmanship and stewardship consist of electric prods and round-up. Trying to re-shape agriculture along industrio-Wal mart lines, then stepping back and wondering why the square peg won't fit the round hole no matter how hard you pound it. Out ambition the mission.

...but I'm going hungry, yeah... Lots of people going hungry. Realizing that what they were being fed gave no sustenance, like eating sawdust, full and hungry at the same time. So they started stealing bread . It's what has given rise to places like Cherry Street, Broken Arrow, Pearl Street, and markets all over this country, farmer and shopper, hand in hand, stealing. Small farmers turning the machine on it's head and realizing you can't put more on the land than it can take. Realizing that sustainability isn't just some by-word, but a real means to de-mine the field. Realizing that farming for money's sake alone scales the eye, causes you to miss seeing what you're doing to the land. Shoppers realizing that how they spend their money doesn't just affect the quality of their food, it can also affect the quality of their future. Looking at what will have to be reaped from what's been sown, and realizing their grandchildren might not like it. So, I don't mind stealing bread, how about you?

Pork & Greens

Our Tribe - Bibi Becklund

Farmers are a different tribe. Thing is, we all have it in us, for most it's just buried too deep over a distance too far, but run your trace back far enough through your family's tree and you'll find it. Shake the branches hard enough and all of us will find that the love of planting and harvesting is in our roots. The gene's just gone recessive. Some do, however, still express the trait, and I want you to meet some of them. They're part of my tribe, and, really, yours too.

Coffee town. Espresso so strong it will put you on the jackhammer for an hour and then vibrate you the rest of the week. Land of Hendrix. One shift in the watchtower can really shake your castle's walls.  Sonic-electric innovation that's still sending out the high voltage forty years later. Just a little background for the farmer I'd like you to meet - Bibi Becklund. 

Dug from the Seattle scene and then transplanted in rural Oklahoma, Bibi's roots are starting to take, adjusting to the new medium, a far, far different medium than Seattle. Chef and shepherd, farmer and baker, just four of the many strands woven into Bibi's cloth, all four making the cloth stronger. A vendor at the Cherry Street farmers market for four years now, she's one of the ingredients giving Cherry street it's unique flavor and flair.

I had the chance to ask her a few questions at our 6th & Peoria drop off this past Saturday, and here's what she had to say:

 

Bibi has a really cool blog where you can learn more about her farm and livestock, and her farm dinners (which are highly recommended) so check it out when you get the chance!

I wanted to start this "Our Tribe" segment because there are so many interesting people, with interesting stories, at both the Cherry Street and Broken Arrow markets. Lots more to come (next week I hope to interview the Bootstrappers, Don Drury and Chelsea Coleman), so I hope you enjoy the interviews, and if you have a certain vendor you'd like to see, just let us know, and, once the market seasons start back, we plan on getting some customers in the tribe. 

A special thanks to everyone who braved the cold and wind this past Saturday in order to support your local farmers. We all appreciate you tremendously!

Pork & Greens

Maybell

Maybell is our herd English Large Black female. A farmer's probably not supposed to have favorites where the livestock are concerned, but by golly, she's my favorite pig. Born outside of Hattiesburg, Mississippi, I picked her up when she was around 9 weeks old and we've been pals ever since. Well, we did have a bit of a spat on the ride back. I would set the radio on a sports station and, when I wasn't looking, she'd turn it to country.

The difference between the rare breed pigs and modern pigs, like our Spots, is all in the temperment. Maybell is just a downright friendly pig. Back before she was bred, when I would show up for feeding time all the pigs would be hemmin and hollerin for food, and there's Maybell laying on her side waiting for me to come rub her belly. She prefered a good back scratching to anything I could feed her. She'd rather eat boatloads of clover than ground up milo any ole day.

When I got to the farm this morning she wasn't out to greet me like usual, so I new something was up. She went and had piglets last night. Seven of them, which, by pure breed standards, is about average. I made a short video of the new arrivals here:

 

Maybell, besides being my favorite pig, has a job to do at the farm. Earn her keep. She produces crossbred boars (males used for breeding) that we'll use to breed the crossbred females you saw in a previous video. We like to use crossbred pigs to produce our pork because of something called "hybrid vigor" which means that the offspring will carry the best attributes of both parents. So we can get the good growth and loin size from the Spot breed, while keeping the taste quality and unsurpassed temperment and mothering ability of the Large Blacks.

Hope you enjoy seeing Maybell and her piglets, and I know I'll enjoy seeing everyone this Saturday!

Pork & Greens

Where Have All The Flowers Gone?

Where have all the flowers gone? Beautiful song. Digging down through all the meanings can really dull your shovel. War, love, death, the cycle of life. It's got it all. We're at the down stage in the cycle. The bear market stage. Socked in deep by old man winter. Flowers, gone. Color, gone. Waiting on the rebirth that happens every year. I miss the color. The better than "Solomon in all his glory" color.  Green. A clover field could turn you on your head if you had to describe the color to a blind man. The true color. Almost infinite shades. Dawn to dusk shades. Full moon shades. Season shades. Sun to shadow shades.

 Sometimes we don't even notice that the flowers are gone. Too busy. The work- family-social life speed train. It'll warp your lens. Tunnel your vision. We all want to slow it down but just can't seem to find the brake. I'm on it and you probably are too. Train keep a rollin. Farming is a little different in that this time of year we usually do notice that the flowers are gone. Our problem is we don't seem to notice them when they're there. The plant-cultivate-harvest-wash-sell cycle can pull your blinders down just as tight as any corporate gig. Different cause, same effect. Time keep a rollin.

Exponential time loss. Who doesn't notice that time goes by faster and faster the older you get? Einstein caught a glimpse and penned it "relativity" - not enough electron activity in my grey matter to delve into the mystery.  As a kid the time reserves seemed endless, full account, ledger's-in-the-black endless.  Hit fifty (I'm almost there) and you're making withdrawls so fast it can unbalance your checkbook. Red's overtaking your green. You can make deposits though. De-rat your race. Get out on a hiking trail, a deserted beach, a quiet lake, or even in the backyard, laying in the grass (or a clover field) watching the clouds go by, and you can feel your chute open, slow your fall, bring your focus back, till you notice that the flowers really are gone, with the knowledge that they're soon to return. We've all got a road, or even several roads, that leads us to notice, but we seldom take the journey. Inertia funk. Why is that? When will we ever learn?

It really is a beautiful song!

What do you like to do that slows your day down or de-rats your race?

FYI - We've ordered our brat cart, delivery expected in mid Febuary. Cooked brats at Cherry Street and Broken Arrow this coming market season!

Pork & Greens

Gimme Shelter...

You try to shake the cold, but the cold shakes you. Ground freeze. The kind of freeze that will bend your pitchfork. One last detail before it's time to reacquaint hands, seed, and soil. Barn raising. Rafters, posts, purlins, tin, rise and run, square and plumb, and all the other workspeak of a carpenter. We've decided that a larger tractor is needed here at the farm, and tractors need shelter. Gimme shelter . Nothing like working in trench foot weather makes you appreciate all things Caribbean. Funny how the mind wanders when your eyes have the slow leak, nose the fast leak, both from winds that would make Thor dig in a little deeper. Margaritas anyone?  The sun is just a shadow of it's mid summer self. Feeble. Warmth only comes from action, but if you sit too long that action will turn back on you and freeze you out. That's the bad thing about not living at the farm. No source for heat. Fire is needed. Too much cold tilts you. Fire will bring your balance back. Some wear the winter like a long lost favorite coat, while for others, like me, it's all you can do to keep the winter from wearing you.

Pigs embrace the chill. Takes them up the good side of the hill while it's rolling me down the other. Simple shelter and straw. 

 That's one of the beauties of pigs outdoors. Low maintenance. Cram them in concrete floored buildings with state of the art ventilation, heating, cooling, etc and watch the low leave maintenance like we leave the Cherry St parking lot at closing.  Raccoons-on-the-corn-crop fast. What made us think you could jam animals in buildings like fans at an OU game, (having to wallow in their own excrement, and then flush all that into holding ponds, and the ponds right next to rivers or creeks) and we wouldn't have health and environmental problems? It's the A and the G,  I tell ya. Ambition cuts the trail for us and then Greed leads us down it.

Oh well, enough of that, now on to the "meat" of the post. First, we want to give a few details about our new Pork & Greens greek sausage. Kalamata olives and feta cheese are the two ingredients that give this sausage it's distinct flavor. It's a sausage similar to our bangers, in that it's hard to describe to someone what they taste like. You just have to try it. Perfect for pastas, buns, or pitas, which is our favorite. We've added a recipe PorkITAs that has has our sausage with pita bread. Super easy to make, but the tzatziki sauce is a must.

The butcher called today and said it will probably be tommorrow before we know the yield on the pig. As soon as we have it we'll send you an e-mail.

Question of the Day: What was the first car you ever owned? I'll go first. 77 Chevy Nova, candy apple red, raised white letter tires, with a black, red, and white checked interior. Chick magnet, although the hens weren't that impressed. 8 track player was extra!

Pork & Greens

Frost(y) Blows, Man!

Cold. Bones rattling. North wind howling. Fingers crack and split like well seasoned oak. Fields are fading brown and brittle. Everything has a hard edge. Winter has arrived on the farm. Definitely my least favorite time of the year. Kids are waiting for Santa and I'm waiting for a southern thaw. Life at the farm is at low ebb this time of year.  Better days are right around the corner. A week and change. That's when the days will start lengthening. Ten hours of daylight and spinach planting time arrives. Farming has a symbiotic quality. You work the land and the land works you. I can't wait!

Pigs like cold. I like heat. We've yet to sort this out. I took a short video of the pigs you can see here:

 

I'm taking a pig to the butcher tommorrow, and I'll send an e-mail out by next weekend with what will be available. Right now it looks like bacon, pepper bacon, brats, chorizo, bangers, and , I hope, a new greek sausage. Depends on the yield. Orders will be first come, first serve through e-mail or by phone. Drop off will be at 6th and Peoria for Cherry St customers and in front of the market on Main St for Broken Arrow customers. See you soon!

Pork & Greens