Harvesting Chestnuts

Saturday, October 12, 2014

Today is one of those perfect fall days that fill state park parking lots with cars, pickups and horse trailers.  The sky opened the day azure and full of sunshine to show sumac and maple leaves off to best advantage and has mellowed into a partly overcast with patches of its original brilliance, but even the clouds are white and gilded with sunshine.  And the sassafras and hickory leaves glow more golden and rich in the filtered light.

In the luster of the afternoon sun, a bowl of chestnuts sits, ancient as the White-Tailed Deer who I stole them from.  Our daughter, Sarah, home from college for the weekend, helped me gather the nuts from their prickly husks yesterday afternoon before dinner.  The deer had hoovered all of the nuts on the grass beneath the Chinese-American Chestnut hybrid that old Zeke planted years ago on the farm.  But, using sticks, Sarah and I were able to knock ripe nuts, still in their sharp-spined husks down and extract the beautiful chestnuts.

I don't know how ancient people managed to pluck the rich nuts from their prickly protection, but we used our sneakers to peel away the husks, popping open the seed ball and carefully picking out one, two or even three lustrous, earthy nuts to drop into our collecting bag.  When it came to reaching the really high-up nuts just out of reach of our sticks, we stood for a moment, puzzling how to snag them, wishing for the telescoping apple picker up the hill in the barn. Sarah brightened, "What am I thinking?  I'm standing next to a forest!"  and disappeared off into the woods, returning with a truly Olympic-length pole.  We bagged a bunch more nuts, enough to make a really good batch of roasted chestnuts.













Why is it that wielding a long stick, on a sunny Friday afternoon, gathering food from the land makes me feel that delight of childhood?  How natural it feels to gather nuts, to chat with our dear Sarah, to listen to the Blue Jays in the woods, and breathe the fresh autumn air.  Humans were made to interact with the land, with each other, and to admire the beauty of the earth and all of Creation.

May you find the fruits of the land, and the beauty of the land in sustaining abundance this week!
Betsy

Rainy Day Friends

Thank God for the dedicated customers who come out with umbrellas on a rainy October market day, for they made my day on Monday as they zipped up and bought dinner rolls, fresh chocolate cakes or a pumpkin bread.  A quick word of chit chat, a shared smile, and they were gone.  Angels unaware perhaps of the gift they bestowed on this baker and her hard-working man.  We were up at work at 6 am, mixing up dough (me), rolling out the second oven (David) and tending to the new flock of pullets (David).   And we busied straight through -- baking, cooling and packaging pies. cakes and breads, loading the truck with tables and tent, bags and baskets -- until we bagged the last warm raisin breads, loading them in the truck and bumping down the gravel driveway and out onto our country road.  The morning's sunny disposition, the brilliant blue sky crisp white clouds and winds that whisked the glowing leaves -- embers of the Sugar Maple's earlier autumnal flame -- had inspired my baking as I kneaded whole wheat bread dough for loaves, and blended up butternut squash for pumpkin breads.  I kept asking "Please stay, blue sky."  But as Robert Frost discovered, "Nothing gold can stay."

In hunching under raincoats and umbrellas, in dodging under our market tent to stay dry while shopping, in bringing the kids to pick up fresh food right after school, everyday folks, our regulars, brought the sunshine back into the day, and brought the light of gratitude to my heart.  So, thank you, heroes!

Funny thing, When we thanked customers for coming out in the rain, they seemed surprised for the gratitude, as if they didn't understand the good they had bestowed on the raincoat-clad farmers behind tables of zucchinis, spaghetti squashes, tomatoes, apples, and bushel baskets of corn, cabbage and sweet bell peppers.  So this post is dedicated to those little things you do that bring joy to others -- pulling in to say hi and buy a sticky bun and a bag of crisp fall apples or a bundle of kale. Simple, small, but with a positive ripple in someone else's day.

We had worried that the rain that began to patter down just at the opening bell of market, would keep customers away, and we wouldn't make gas money.  But, by the afternoon's end, we sold most of our miniloaves, chocolate cakes and apple pies, and many of our risen breads.  Including most of our sticky buns. I was grateful to buy some organic broccoli from Bill Bertram's booth, pack up the truck and get down the road to dinner and warmth.

The fall harvest continues.  Come see us at the parking lot of the Weirton Goodwill and the Newlife Worship Center, 306-308 Penco Road, Weirton, WV.  Click here for a Google Map & street view of the lot.  (You can see our "King Corn" sign against the light post.)  We will be there every Monday from 3 to 6 pm, rain or shine from now until the end of October.  You can also visit the Weirton Market on Facebook.

There's still time to get some great local food!
Betsy

Harvest Week

Warning:  The end of this post has graphic, step-by-step photos of butchering a chicken.   Please don't scroll past the beets unless you feel comfortable viewing them.

Our week has felt very autumnal, and very focused on gathering in the harvest.  Monday was bean picking and a crazy lot of baking in preparation for our Weirton Market.  Tuesday found me with a bushel basket of beets to can for winter eating.  

The morning dawned foggy and magical, and I tried out a quicker way to peel the beets this year.  I used to say my little paring knife was my favorite food processor -- it still is -- but since my friend Walter gave me a hand-crank apple peeler, slicer and corer, I have become a believer in speeding up food prep with the right tool.  The coring & slicing apparatus is removable, allowing me to spear a round beet, and crank merrily away.  I chopped the beets, boiled them for 5 minutes in water, and then filled wide-mouth quart jars with the cooked beets and 1/2 teaspoon of salt before sealing and processing them for 35 minutes at 10 pounds of pressure in my pressure canner.  As I worked, rain moved in over Hawk's Hill, and the cooler temperatures had me closing windows and feeling cozy and delighted to be in the kitchen putting by for chilly days ahead.

The 25 pounds of beets we bought from Jodikinos Farm at Weirton Market yielded 18 quarts of finished beets.  They look like ruby jewels lining the pantry shelf, and feel like earthy insurance against the dullness of winter.

And I had all of the peels to feed to my pullets!

Chicken Harvesting  

Wednesday was chicken harvesting day, and time to take 14 older birds from the yard to the freezer for more winter meals.  The flock had been our laying flock, but had ceased to lay much, so it was time to make room in the chicken tractor for the young birds growing up in the barn.  

Here's the hen in hand.

Chicken harvesting takes some planning ahead: I watch the weather, for I butcher the birds outdoors.  We set up the equipment the night before.  I used to read over Carla Emery's instructions in The Encyclopedia of Country Living, but I've done it enough, that I can "hear" her simple words in my mind, along with my mother-in-law, Anna's remembrances of her own mother cleaning chickens for dinner.  Anna's job was to catch and kill the chicken, and bring it to her mother to scald, pluck, clean and fry.  Just before my first adventure killing chickens, Anna described the process her mother used, carefully showing me the hand motions her mom used to clean the entrails out of the carcass.  Every time I harvest chickens, I picture Anna's hands as we sat at her kitchen table, demonstrating the careful scooping motion her mom used.  It was valuable instruction, and like much of what I do out here on Hawk's Hill, I felt the presence of these homesteading women alongside me as companions and to give me confidence when I felt uncertain of my skills.

When I have the first chicken in hand, I often think about my own limited lifespan, look out at the day, give thanks for what I have, and imagine, if this were my day to leave this earth, what would I want to last see and experience?  In this way, the chore takes on spiritual depth.

Our butchering equipment was very inexpensive, made from leftover items in the barn, or plucked from the dumpster (in the case of the double sink).

I always wear a heavy glove on my left hand to
prevent cutting myself.

David made me a killing cone from sheet metal attached to a 5-gallon bucket.  Filled half full with water, the bucket holds the chicken securely, allowing me to quickly sever the main artery in the neck, humanely killing the chicken, and prevents the "running around like a chicken with its head cut off" stage of chicken butchering.  Keeps the bird clean.


   The blood drains into the bucket of water.

After rinsing the dead bird with a garden hose to wet the feathers, I dunk it in boiling water for 30 seconds to make plucking easier.

Chicken plucking is easier on my Buff Orpingtons than the few Dominiques I raised.  The Buffs' feathers just come out in fistfulls after scalding, leaving a white, clean skin.

Passing the carcass quickly through a
flame burns off the fine hair-like feathers you can't pluck.














Then, I remove and discard the feet...

... and the head.  Then I cut off the neck from the carcass to save for making stock.


 I make a very careful cut between the hip bones. I must not cut into the intestines to keep from fouling the meat. This is the opening that allows me to reach in to loosen the entrails with my hand.  Pretty soon, the innards are outed and I carefully cut around the cloaca to allow the entire mass to drop into the trash bag.

 I always look over the entrails to check for any sign of disease.  The entrails look clean, and I found one last egg inside this old hen.

Outing the innards

This is the gall bladder and the most important part of the entrails not to break.  Any meat that the bile touches must be thrown out -- a waste

 The finished bird is ready to be washed with soap and water inside and out, rinsed, ziplock-bagged, put into a grocery bag and weighed.  This one weighed in at 3 pounds, 5 ounces and went into the deep freeze.

As the week draws to a close, I plan to spend tomorrow tidying and reorganizing my pantry so that I can get to all of those canned beets, salsas, onions braids and bushel boxes of potatoes.

Thanks for sticking with me through this long post.  The more we know about our food and how it is processed, the better we are able to make decisions about our food.  In the case of our home-raised chicken, I feel grateful knowing that the birds were raised without antibiotics, without animal by-products in their feed, and having lived a clean life in the fresh air on pasture.  When I come to the end of my days, I will give thanks for having lived in the fresh air, on the good earth myself, with the grace of God and the balm of home-harvested foods to sustain me and my family.

Wishing you a happy harvest week,
Betsy

Indigenous Meal Photo Post

Indigenous Meals Photo Post

My Indigenous Food Game has become a satisfying habit rather than just a day's delight.  Here are a few random photos of meals we've made from (mostly) indigenous foods:

Scrambled eggs with onions and sweet peppers, mashed potatoes and a fresh salad made a quick and filling dinner.  Everything but the salad dressing, butter and milk were from Hawk's Hill.

Vegetable Tian:  This is a slightly tweaked version of Ina Garten's Vegetable Tian (click here for the original recipe: http://www.foodnetwork.com/recipes/ina-garten/vegetable-tian-recipe.html  ).  I used yellow summer squash instead of zukes, and added some sweet bell peppers, omitting the cheese.  Delicious and so quick to prepare.

Pancakes made with fresh eggs and homemade maple syrup are my favorite breakfast for slow mornings.  Also, a few home grown apples alongside.  Yum.

This is the chicken I used to make chicken and dumplings one night for dinner.  The bird was a rooster I raised, butchered and froze.  It was delicious with dumplings, mashed potatoes, and green beans.

Here's the recipe:

Put chicken in a pot, cover with water and bring to a boil, simmering until meat falls off of bones.  Pull meat from broth and allow to cool.  Strain broth and return to pot.  Pick meat off of the bones, chop into bite-sized pieces, then make dumplings, roll out very thin and drop two at a time into boiling broth.  Simmer for 12 minutes and then add meat chunks, salt and pepper to taste, and serve.

Dumplings:

2 cups sifted flour

2 teaspoons baking powder

1 teaspoon salt

1/3 cup butter

1/2 cup milk, about

Sift dry ingredients together, then rub in butter and add enough milk to make a soft dough, as if you were making biscuits.  Roll dumplings out very thin, and cut into 2" by 2" squares, roughly.  Drop dumplings in two at a time, keeping the broth boiling.  Turn down heat, and simmer for 12 minutes.  Return meat to pot, season with salt and pepper to taste, and serve.

Hope you are enjoying local foods.  This is the best time of year for eating from the land!

Betsy

An Autumn Journal Page

The flame orange and scarlet that once flickered in the Granddaddy Sugar Maple south of Soulstice now spreads to encompass more than half of the tree.  Chipmunks call a steady “chuck-chuck-chuck-chuck…” low under the canopy of the maples and oaks in that spread from my land into my neighbor’s as they strive to defend the rolling acorns and hibernation holes inside of their domains.  

The high, cold sound of morning traffic on Route 168 intervenes in the aloof and disinterested manner of jets flying overhead, intermittent, speeding, apart from, not a part of the landscape like the chipmunks, the mockingbird warbling behind the barn, my dog flopped on the floor waiting to go feed the chickens, my hunky man eating his toast, and me.  A Blue Jay’s rusty pump call is followed by the moxy call “Jay! Jay! Jay!” And the horizon glows clean of clouds, in gentle peach and golden light as the rising sun illuminates the long strands of cirrus clouds, transforming them from dawn’s pastel lavender-gray into peachy golden into cream.  

The magical haze of fog in the valley and low pastures lifts and dissipates.  Does it withdraw into the woodlands like fairies; is it inhaled into the woods duff like breath?  What does a mouse know of the fog, trundling about between grass blades, snuffling for seeds, searching out fallen fruits under berry canes and apple trees, leaving those tiny tooth scrapes I find when I pick apples?  Do the animals witness the hazy navy blue of the horizon as beauty against the foggy fields and verdant woodland whose canopy now blooms into crimson, gold, copper, and scarlet?  Are they like me at my harvest pots, stirring, focusing, chopping, mentally checking lists of ingredients and procedures with my ears dulled by the kitchen fan, then momentarily lifting my head to witness the glory of creation around me?  Or do they breathe glory all day long?  

Perhaps that is the garden of Eden, breathing glory all day long.

The Great Salsa Caper

Our Buff Orpington pullets were happy to eat the scorched tomatoes.

Yesterday, I made two dozen pints of hot salsa, which my True Love and I canned up in the big shiny metal canner that now rests, cool, on the stovetop.  I struggled against a sinus headache that sunk into the roots of my teeth for the bulk of the day, slowing my progress, and assisting me in scorching a whole pot of tomatoes.  But, I was glad for the experiences behind me in scorching pots of applesauce, tomatoes, and spaghetti sauce, for I knew after seeing the look on David’s face after he tasted the tomatoes that we didn’t want to tuck that salsa away for winter, for gifts, for parties.  We wanted to serve those tomatoes to chickens who would gobble their overcooked taste right up and ask for more.  No tears shed, no cuss words necessary.  Acceptance makes the road so very much smoother.

At this point, I took a break, fed my failed tomatoes to the young pullets, who gobbled them up delightedly, and flopped in the grass behind the barn to talk with David of plans for winterizing Soulstice’s north porch with some huge, 1970’s era glass windows a friend of a friend gave us when she was refurbishing an indoor pool room.  The step back, the sunshine of my love’s countenance, the young chickens’ vigor lifted my soul, and I returned to the kitchen, flipped open my laptop and Googled Tasha Tudor, a favorite artist, author and countrywoman mentor of mine.  I scrolled through Pinterest pages of photos of Tasha’s art and the art of her everyday handmade life, invoking her pluck, her strong will, her resourcefulness.  Spirit lifted.

And still, the sink was full of Amish & Orange Banana Paste Tomatoes waiting for a dip in boiling water to skin and core.  Back into the steam, and I emerged a few hours later with 8 quarts of peeled, cored, chopped and drained tomatoes simmering -- gently -- on the stove.  The ‘Jaluv An Attitude’ Jalapeno, Hungarian Hot Wax and Cayenne Peppers my Beloved and I had picked the day before got chopped to join sweet bell and horn-shaped Carmen frying peppers picked Monday night ahead of our first frost, as well as pungent Copra Onions, and hardneck garlic cloves I had chopped and added to the mix.  

I think my man was a steam train engineer in a previous life, because he has a flow-mind when operating my pressure canner.  The smoothest rises and decompressions of pressure result from his Zen-like mastery of the simple machine.  As he removed the jars from the canner at the end of the runs, we heard the magical metallic sound of lids pipping as they flexed in, pulled by the vacuum of the cooling jars.  

Our late dinner felt like a balm as Kate, David and I sat down to Tofurky sausages, organic pasta and last year’s homemade spaghetti sauce -- one of my fast-food meals when I’m in a pinch.  We sat around the table, victorious after the day, hearing about plans for a model UN, and the latest in the Vlog Brothers’ efforts to raise funds for providing Ethiopians with clean water.  Kate’s face beamed when she handed over some of her hard-earned cash to David in payment for a credit card donation to the cause, and she glowed with delight as she watched the ‘Funds Raised’ counter advance with her gift.

This morning, I tripped down to the kitchen with the joy of Christmas in my heart to press my index finger into the centers of each ruby jar of salsa, delighted by the hard resistance the lids met me with.  Now the lot of them cram into the kitchen sink for a wet rag wash-up and labeling for the nearly-full canning shelf in what our Sarah calls “Mrs. Mouse’s Storehouse.”

The pot of tea now emptied, the toast is eaten, and the day shines brightly, calling me to feed chickens, to pick beans, to revel in another day in the beauty of Creation, this time without the headache, to seize this magical day.

May your day be magical and your soul full of harvests.

Betsy

If you want to make your own salsa, here’s the recipe I cobbed together from several I found in books:

Hawk’s Hill Organic Salsa:

16 cups peeled, seeded, chopped & drained tomatoes, preferably paste

6 cups onions, chopped

3 cups hot peppers -- Hungarian Hot Wax, Jalapeno, plus a Cayenne -- seeded and

chopped (Leave some seeds in for extra heat).

4 cups sweet peppers, seeded and chopped

6 cloves garlic, minced, or more to taste

1 ½ cups cider vinegar

2 tsp. salt

Wash, blanch and peel, seed and chop the tomatoes first, draining the chopped tomatoes in a sieve or colander.  You can catch the juice and save it for soup-making.  Simmer the drained tomatoes in a large, heavy-bottomed pot, stirring to prevent scorching!  You can cook the tomatoes down a bit to remove excess liquid, just keep stirring.  Chop and add all of the other vegetables and the vinegar and salt, and boil for 10 minutes, stirring.  Jar, seal and process.  I used my pressure canner at 10 # for 15 min., but you could use sterilized jars in a boiling water canner.  My Ball Blue Book calls for processing 15 minutes in a boiling-water canner.  Check here for a similar recipe: http://www.freshpreserving.com/recipes/zesty-salsa.

Tomato Photo Post

The end of the summer has brought us the final harvests of tomatoes.  On this difficult tomato-growing year, with cold temperatures that held off ripening until late, we are trying to use up all of the tomatoes the earth graces us with.  Here are a few photos of our last spaghetti sauce making day on Hawk's Hill.

 A bounty of tomatoes gets blanched first:

Then run through a "Tomatopresse" from Italy that I got at a rummage sale.  It works wonders, pouring out tomato puree through one fount and seeds and peels from another spout.

David runs the Tomatopresse while I cook.

Cooking down the tomato juice into thicker sauce, stirring, stirring seemingly forever.

Chopping up onions, sweet peppers and garlic -- all homegrown.

We mixed in heirloom Paul Robeson, Rose de Berne, Brandywine and other flavorful slicing tomatoes with the Orange Banana, Vilms and Amish Paste tomatoes to make the sauce, and used Red Tropea (an Italian Heirloom) as well as Candy (sweet) and Copra (pungent) onions.  I had chopped and frozen basil in olive oil, so it was easy to incorporate into the sauce with the onions and peppers.

Red and green sweet bell and frying peppers like Carmen and Odessa Market (a Ukrainian Heirloom) Peppers

We pressure canned the finished sauce, and tucked it away on the canning shelf.

A small picking of tomatoes yielded tomato juice for winter soups.

Hope you are tucking away good foods for winter, and enjoying the sun while it shines!
Betsy