On The Farm

Pigs and piglets, chicken, goats and sheep; shakshuka.

Kiddo and the Warthog, as I was driving them to camp, wanted to hear a funny story about what happened at the farm. Never one to pass up the opportunity for recounting, I told them how as soon as the pigs saw me cruising down the farm road on my e-bike, they got up and traipsed over to the gate, anxiously awaiting their two pounds of grain served to order. Heard them, as I filled the bucket, snorting and squealing, and fighting, banging against the fence, causing all sorts of commotion. Grabbed their feed trays, avoided Aster and Annabelle ramming the gate, nearly knocking it into my downturned head, poured the grain expeditiously enough to avoid a full-on riot, kicked the trays under the fence, and hightailed it out of there — the four sows already fighting and grunting, doing their rigamarole, song and dance, moving from tray to tray until they finally found their equilibrium.

Sauntered into the barn where the feeder piglets were waiting. Dumped their old grain, poured some anew, waited until they started to shovel it down, then entered their stall, shovel already, mucking shavings and hay and pee and poop into a bucket. The piglets waddled to the water spigot, lapped up the cold, clear water, splashing it all over the stall floor — and then, in the growing puddle, dropped down and started to roll, mucking up themselves and the concrete floor, happy as pigs in mud should rightly be.

Over to the chickens, growing, but not yet laying. Changed their feed, their water, scraped the roost boards, opened the door to fresh air and bugs. Laughed a little when I remembered the marketing copy on the fifteen-dollar eggs I was forced to buy the other day — “Free-ranging chickens fed on a 100% vegetarian diet!” Tell that to the mealworms and crickets, caterpillars and spiders, the little mice and shrews and fledgling birds unfortunate enough to get stranded in their enclosure. Still, we tell ourselves the stories we need to get us to sleep — or, to camp.

Moved into the barn with the sheep and goats. Rubbed the heads of the two lambs, my hands covered in lanolin, as I walked by — they bleated, impatiently, never happy to be slotted behind the goats in my work order. Saw the familiar black head of Gabe, poking out through the wire fencing. His last morning — having nibbled one too many campers as they tried to finish their own afternoon chores. Cleaned the stalls, changed the water, changed the hay, put down the grain. Did the same for the sheep; collected the muck buckets and put them in the back of the ATV. Bump-bump-bump down the gravel road to the compost heap — spooked a woodchuck, a group of rabbits, winked at a hawk, then dumped the bins, rounded back to make it home. Stopped for a minute, though, to watch those goats, all on their playground, squaring up for King of the Hill. Gabe was there on the far end, the wooden surface slick from yesterday’s rain — watched him slip and slide and rear and butt as the rest of the herd came at him, one last time.

Made it back just in time to hop back in the car with Kiddo and the Warthog and the Monkey and tell them all about it — laughing all the way.

Excavated from the freezer a top round from one of the bucks I shot last fall; seasoned it with cumin and salt and pepper and paprika and garlic and onion, poured over it a beer, doused it with canned tomatoes, let it braise for six or seven hours covered in the oven until it was tender and shreddable. We ate it for most of this week on tacos, over coleslaw and roasted squash, and then, on a rainy Wednesday — a farm day — I ladled much of the leftovers into a cast iron pan, thinned the sauce with stock, then dropped in a few duck eggs, covered it with kefir cheese, and placed it in the oven until the whites set. Served it with fresh bread like a vaguely Mexican shakshuka.

That’s really the recipe. I’m sure you can figure it out, even if I didn’t write it in italics.

We’re this weekend having a “graduation party” — however belated — for Kiddo, spending some time with Beeba and Papa, Auntie and some cousins. However you choose to spend yours, I hope you spend it laughing.

We’ll see you back here next week.